Stars and Stripes Forever
by Mistflyer1102
Summary: World War Two: The biggest conflict of the 20th century brings all sorts of players onto the international stage as the battle for world control rages through Europe and Asia, from the home fronts to the front lines.
1. Rebirth

**I**

**Rebirth**

* * *

"…Phillips…man, you're choking me here…"

"Oh, knock it off Jones," General Chester Phillips growled before giving the tie a good yank. "It's just a damn tie. You _will_ wear it with the uniform even if I have to tie you down and knot it around your throat just so you can't pull it off."

Alfred F. Jones cast a forlorn glance to the apartment master bedroom where he knew his favorite leather bomber jacket was hanging off the bedpost. The uniform was Phillips's revenge for Alfred's blatantly casual behavior the other day at the recruiting station. Sighing, Alfred swatted Phillips's hand away, saying, "Fine, I'll fix it myself. I need to breathe you know."

Phillips muttered something under his breath as he moved away. "How's the shoulder?" he finally asked, pausing by the guest bedroom entrance.

"Doing better." Alfred could still feel sharp needles of pain every time he moved his shoulder, the haunting memories and scars still fresh in his mind from Pearl Harbor a month ago. As the personification of the United States of America, Alfred could sense – and feel – every single thing occurring within his borders. The determination of his people for vengeance against Japan, the revitalization of the war industries, and the overall _readiness_ to get started, all of it swirled through his veins and increased his recovery process.

Alfred himself hadn't been idle either.

"I'm going now to go pick up Doctor Erskine, so that we can start Project Rebirth. Agent Peggy Carter is going to go pick up the lab rat from his hotel; kid's probably worn out from his trip from Lehigh in Virginia." Phillips sighed and said, "I don't care that the British insisted on having a liaison to the U.S. Army, I just wish sometimes it wasn't a woman, they're so much harder to handle."

"Huh, I wouldn't know. I've only had to deal with the guys during World War One." Alfred watched as Phillips went into the other room before muttering, "It was extremely awkward." Alfred didn't know how else to explain his meeting with England after a century of not talking cordially to him.

"Fantastic." Phillips came back out of the guest bedroom with his coat. He paused in the doorway. "I'm going now. _Please_ arrive on time, and be ready to go for when your ride arrives in a few minutes."

"Aye, aye Captain." Alfred turned so Phillips couldn't see the smirk on his face when Phillips groaned aloud. "I'll see you in a few minutes," Alfred added over his shoulder.

"Remember that Senator Brandt, who is graciously funding and supporting this project, is going to be there, and if this test is successful, we'll need to keep Brandt happy so that we can get that Super Soldier army and end this war by this time in two years," Phillips said, his face softening for a grand total of three seconds.

"All right, I just need to find the uniform jacket, fix the tie, and then I'll go down to the lobby to wait," Alfred said before finally loosening the godforsaken tie and began trying to retie the knot.

Phillips just grunted and left.

Alfred felt some tension drain out of his shoulders after the general left. The man was more perceptive than Alfred initially guessed; the first time he caught sight of Alfred's shoulder a couple days after going to the recruitment station, he'd remarked that Alfred healed remarkably quickly, an apparently useful talent. Phillips didn't know of the nation personifications, no, that was a secret for the President and a very, _very_ select few to know. Phillips did not qualify; all he knew was that he had a high-ranking subordinate under his command that just happened to be critically injured a week ago.

Anything more and his safety would be compromised.

Alfred already hated compromising the few men who knew. He didn't want to add one more to the list.

It didn't help either that the Strategic Scientific Reserve, the group behind Project Rebirth, had more or less taken over Alfred's New York apartment as their headquarters. Agent Carter was really nice, and Alfred didn't mind the brilliant inventor Howard Stark either, but God help the soul that started a fight with Phillips when the general was in one of his moods...which happened frequently.

Picking up the uniform jacket, Alfred caught sight of an open letter sitting on the small coffee table nearby. He made a mental note to write back to his friend, Steve Rogers, after the demonstration today. He hadn't seen Steve since the chance encounter outside the recruiting office all those days ago, but the two had started exchanging letters right away. It felt nice, having someone to write to even though they hadn't known each other that well at first and their respective addresses were constantly changed and screened for secrecy. Alfred had taken the first step, ghosting over the topic of his own family (Steve didn't need to know how messed up _that_ was at the moment) and talking about how much of a pain Phillips was being at the time.

That had been the first step to breaking the ice.

Now, several letters later, Steve's latest letter had been disheartening; he was doing something secret and couldn't tell Alfred about it just in case. He was also going to be unable to write back for an indefinite amount of time. Alfred hoped that whatever Steve was up to, he wasn't going to get himself killed (Alfred had tried to scour out any other secret projects he didn't know about, to get an idea of what Steve would have to deal with, but Phillips had threatened to use something harder than a rolled-up newspaper to the nose the next time he caught Alfred snooping around his desk).

"I thought you would be here."

Alfred jumped and whirled around to find Arthur Kirkland, the personification of England and the representative for the United Kingdom, standing in the doorway. He looked paler and significantly thinner than the last time Alfred saw him, but Alfred was wise enough to keep those remarks to himself.

Besides, he wasn't in the mood to argue with the other man. "So, you're my ride?" he asked casually, turning back to the small wall mirror to continue fixing his tie. Before England could answer though, Alfred continued with, "You do know to drive on the correct side of the road, right?"

He heard a sigh, and felt a little stab of guilt for throwing the barb at England when the older nation had been suffering from the Blitz for several years now, and was already sick of this world war.

Hands firmly gripped his shoulders, startling Alfred slightly until he realized that England was just turning him around to face him. "I didn't say _I_ was driving, so of course we'll be on the correct side of the bloody road," England grumbled as he yanked Alfred's tie off hard enough to give the American slight whiplash. Then he carefully wound it properly around Alfred's neck and smoothly tied it into a knot before testing the pressure against a finger. "Now come. General Phillips has asked that I get you to your destination on time."

"You make it sound like I'm always late when I'm going somewhere."

"That's because you always _are."_

Alfred mocked England's tone and expression at first but innocently smoothed it over when England glanced back at him to make sure that he was still coming. Alfred may like to _occasionally_ test the boundaries of England's temper, but he wasn't stupid enough to intentionally provoke the Englishman _now_.

The ride to their destination, the SSR's hidden labs in Brooklyn, was spent in awkward silence. Every now and then, England would break the silence with a coughing fit that he would either stifle or allow. Alfred merely stared out of the car window, mentally cursing the vehicle every time it jolted his shoulder because of the potholes in the road. At one point, Alfred finally nodded off only to hit his head with a _smack_ against the glass window.

"You aren't sleeping well, are you?" England asked, frowning as the car began to slow down.

Alfred frowned. Yes, his shoulder and buzzing thoughts kept him up most nights, but England didn't have to know that. "What makes you say that?" he finally said, opting for the safer route.

A smile twitched on England's face. "First, you were falling asleep during the trip. Second, you haven't made one hero-related remark in the thirty minutes we've been together. That's not like you."

Alfred stared at him for a moment before mustering up a small grin. "That's because you haven't seen our work yet. Phillips didn't want me to spoil the surprise yet."

England frowned, but didn't say anything as the car had finally stopped. The two men got out, and Alfred casually ignored the two plainclothes smoking nearby. Instead, he gestured for England to follow him down the sidewalk to the Brooklyn Antiques, ignoring the third plainclothes who smoked on the front step of the neighboring store. Alfred could sense England's curiosity and trepidation behind him, but he ignored it; he had plenty to worry about without adding England's worries to the mix.

One such problem was getting through security.

The elderly owner of Brooklyn Antiques looked up from her newspaper and smiled when the two men walked in. "Lovely weather we're having," she said, standing up out of her seat.

Alfred discreetly (and not gently) stepped on England's foot; the other man had opened his mouth to respond and only Alfred knew the proper answer. England would only raise the woman's suspicions. "Yes it is, but he forgot his umbrella," Alfred said, gesturing to England, pointedly ignoring the Englishman's scowl.

The woman however only smiled before sitting back down again at her seat and reached under the counter. Alfred meanwhile tugged gently on England's jacket sleeve to get the older man to follow him to the back of the shop, into the storage area.

"What are we-" England began, but Alfred held up a hand in a signal to wait.

A soft _swish,_ and they were in the SSR's underground labs.

The hall before them looked like something out of a futuristic sci-fi movie, but the bustling nurses and MPs ruined the illusion. As he led England, Alfred recognized some of the doctors that were preparing for the operation; they had treated him while he'd been recovering from Pearl Harbor.

He realized too late that they probably remembered everything he said while he was in pain.

Alfred cringed and hoped that they wouldn't turn around and recognized him; the last thing he needed was for England to hear some of the things he had said in a haze of pain.

"_Jones!_ Where the hell have you – Ah, you must be Sir Kirkland," Phillips said as he approached the two men, his voice lowering slightly. "I take it that you have already met Commander Jones?"

"Of course. We were discussing the possibility of a future joint operation that would allow the Allies to hopefully reclaim the nation of France from the Germans," England said smoothly, covering for them both.

Alfred nodded. "Sir Kirkland, this is General Phillips of the Strategic Scientific Reserve, and he has been instrumental in Project Rebirth," he said, stepping back while the other two men greeted each other.

"I do hope that _someone_ plans to explain this 'Project Rebirth', you were very vague when you contacted us," England said, his face settling into its usual scowl.

"For good reason. As you're probably aware, there are rumors floating around that the Germans have dabbled in human experimentation in an attempt to create a 'super-human' if you will. The perfect soldier with incredible strength, yet is disciplined and obedient," Phillips said as he gestured for England to walk with him.

"They've already got one. His name is Ludwig Beilschmidt, Germany if you're feeling formal," Alfred muttered under his breath, ignoring the warning glare from England.

Phillips completely missed the exchange. "Project Rebirth is basically the Allies' attempt to not only duplicate the experiment, but do it first and _better_. Not to mention that _we_ have the doctor who originally came up with key to this all: the Super-Soldier serum. The doc picked out his lab rat from a group of _volunteers_, so we're not forcing anyone into this. Once we have an army of these super-soldiers, we're going to finish the war come Christmas of next year."

England let out a small snort of disbelief. "Did they not say something along those lines in the _last_ world war?"

Phillips shrugged. "Details." He gestured for England and Alfred to follow him into the observation room that overlooked the cramped operating room below.

Senator Brandt, who was already there, turned out to be one of the agitated politicians. Well, as agitated as a politician could get, which was about the same level of excitement that Alfred experienced on a regular boring workday. There was another man with Brandt, someone named 'Klem Klemson' or something like that; he was from the State Department, and Alfred didn't get along with those guys very much. A second after meeting Brandt, England stumbled; a slight misstep that only Alfred caught. He discreetly placed a hand on England's waist and guided the island nation to a front row seat while ignoring England's weak protests.

"London?" Alfred whispered.

England scowled, but gave a stiff nod.

"You know, I _told_ Erskine that the kid's arm was too thin for this. The needles are going to go straight through his arm," Phillips grumbled as Brandt sat down.

"Go through whose arm?" Alfred asked, glancing at Phillips. At the general's scowl, Alfred said, "Well, you never told me who the test subject was." Muttering to himself, Alfred stood up to get a better look outside.

He watched Howard Stark shoo away a couple nurses before working on last-minute calibrations. Carter was standing near Erskine while another nurse was walking away with a folded shirt, tie, and hat. Frowning, Alfred tilted his head and moved slightly to get a better look at the small person next to Carter. The person looked rather young, had blond hair, and was nodding to something that Erskine was saying. In fact, the scrawny kid looked sort of like…

"_STEVE?"_

The glass kept Alfred's shout contained, but the stream of curses told Alfred that Phillips had had no problem hearing him. "Want to shout that a little louder, Jones? I don't think they heard you in Europe," Phillips growled as Alfred took a step back from the observation window, his brain still processing this.

Alfred didn't hear him; all of Steve's vague letters suddenly made a lot more sense now. It hurt a little, knowing that Steve hadn't trusted him enough with this information, but soon anxiety swallowed up everything else; Steve _did _have a chance of surviving this operation, right? "Hey General? What did Erskine say the survival odds were?" he asked nervously as Phillips reached forward.

"Don't remember. Now _sit down_ or I'll ask Kirkland for the best way to deal with you acting up," Phillips growled. "Remember what I said. Rogers _volunteered_ with full knowledge of the risks." Phillips narrowed his eyes. "Kid wanted to serve his country, who was I to tell him no? Besides, Erskine wanted him and I wanted to keep the doc happy."

"The odds, General. I wanted to know the odds."

Phillips glared at him before he said, "If you even _dare_ interfere, Jones, Rogers's fate is going to be the _least _of your problems."

Alfred scrunched his face in disapproval, but reluctantly nodded and craned his head for a better look.

Steve was climbing into the contraption now, still looking unconcerned. Before his eyes could flick up toward the observation deck however, Alfred shrank back into his seat, safely out of view. Ignoring England's concerned look, Alfred stared ahead, silently torn between guilt for needing these soldiers so badly that his _friend_ felt compelled to risk his life for such an experiment and relief that someone cared enough about him to step up to this duty.

England might have been on to something when he wrote in his last letter that this war was going to be bad enough for the nations to need humans this desperately to save their sorry hides.

"Don't get attached."

Alfred frowned and turned to England, who was still watching Rogers and the doctors. "What?" he asked.

"Don't get attached. Humans do not live forever." England's voice was quiet and subdued, but there was still the layer of steel underneath.

Alfred scowled as England's remarks hit closer to home than probably intended. "I _know_ that, don't think that just because I'm still young by your standards, I haven't experienced that before," he snapped, careful to keep his voice down. At England's raised eyebrow, Alfred muttered, "I haven't forgotten Washington."

England let out a sniff in obvious disdain; even almost two hundred years later he did not like Washington for obvious reasons. Alfred scowled and turned away, pointedly looking back down at the lab below as Doctor Erskine began speaking, outlining the experiment process. Alfred felt rather than saw England settle back in his seat to watch. Agent Carter, Alfred briefly noticed, was sitting on England's other side, at the edge of the row.

Then the experiment began.

Alfred was pretty sure he wasn't the only one leaning forward in his seat as the tube sealed itself and Stark began working at the controls. His heart was in his throat; what if the experiment failed and killed Steve?

Alfred knew that although England (after they'd awkwardly reconciled) repeatedly warned him not to get too close to a particular human, Alfred just couldn't help it sometimes; it had made the imposed isolation a little easier to bear and it was more of a habit now if anything. After Washington had died, Alfred had found himself in a world of cutthroat politics, and it hadn't been until 1810 when he found and met Francis Scott Key in Baltimore. Key had surprised him with the national anthem, and for his people, it was a mark of national pride. For Alfred, it was a dear memory to an old friend to hold close. Teddy Roosevelt proved to be another close friend; his personality had attracted Alfred's attention and Alfred was quite sure he wouldn't find another president that entertaining for a long time.

Steve Rogers however was actually the _second _person that felt like an actual friend. The first had been a spirited girl during the thirties named Amelia 'Millie' Earhart, and she also happened to be the first non-U.S. president to find out about his true nature (which unfortunately was Alfred's fault; he'd played with the girl when she was little, left, and then accidentally ran into her at an air show almost twenty years later. That had been extremely awkward).

"_Shut it down! SHUT IT DOWN!"_

The shouts and yells dragged him forcefully back to the present. To his horror, Alfred could hear Steve yelling (in pain?) and Agent Carter was shouting at Erskine, who in turn was trying to relay the orders.

_No._

Alfred didn't realize that he was getting out of his seat until Phillips grabbed his arm (the one with the bad shoulder too) and _yanked _him back into the seat and held him down with a firm grip. "Don't you dare, Rogers just insisted on going through with it," Phillips whispered as Alfred almost stood up again.

His heart twisted as the doctors kept working, and he yelped in surprise when the power suddenly _died_.

Silence filled the room but his heart remained pounding in his ears. Alfred yanked his arm out of Phillips's grip and went straight up to the window, watching with bated breath to watch as the doctors and Erskine moved to check and see if Steve survived the process or not.

_Please be okay…_

The tank opened, and Alfred let out a whoop of relieved laughter as doctors helped ease Steve out of the tank. The serum actually worked!

"Son of a bitch, he did it," Phillips said as he too stood up and joined Brandt as the duo left the observation deck with the others. Alfred remained glued to the observation deck window, grinning like an idiot as relief washed over him; Steve, the fool he apparently was, was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right now.

"Well, if you do happen to get an army of men like that, General Phillips may indeed be correct when he said that we'd finish the war soon," England said. Alfred turned to find that he was still sitting in his chair, looking tired yet impressed at the same time. He narrowed his eyes at Alfred and said "But if you're expecting me to fall all over myself in thanking you, don't hold your breath."

Alfred was too happy about Steve's survival to accept the bait. "Then you can buy dinner and drinks once we win, how's that?" he offered.

England scowled as Alfred sat back down next to him. They were the only two left in the observation deck, and England looked ill. He sighed before meeting Alfred's eyes. "As long as it's not a greasy, heart-attack inducing restaurant…I'll _consider_."

Alfred grinned slightly and opened his mouth to say something when suddenly England stiffened. "What's that whirring sound?" he demanded, his head turning sharply in an attempt to locate the sound.

"What sound?" Alfred fell silent and held his breath…and then heard it. It was a soft whirr, as though the source was something small and near…he reflexively looked back out the observation window to see that Klemson was holding something in his hand…a familiar-looking device. Alfred's head snapped back to Klemson's seat and saw that a small object was now sitting on the seat, a green light flashing rapidly. It looked kind of like a…

Alfred didn't think or speak. He simply grabbed England's shoulders right as the island nation turned to see what Alfred had been staring at, and _threw_ England to the ground, twisting his body so that England was as far from the device as possible before jumping on top of the island nation in an attempt to cover him.

Then the grenade went off.

Alfred went deaf from the blast as fire, wood, and glass seared across his back. The room instantly shot into the triple digits in temperature as Alfred covered England's face with his shoulder; he wasn't sure what England was doing. Alfred's entire back meanwhile was raw with pain and numb to any other sensations.

It should have killed an ordinary man.

The next few minutes were a darkened blur. Alfred didn't even know what was going on until it registered in his mind that he was out of the observation room on his stomach, the cold floor underneath him and a cool liquid spreading across his protesting yet healing back. It was hard to remember in times like these that as a nation, he couldn't be hurt or killed by things like fire and guns; as a nation, his people were fine; only injuries dealt to the nation itself would last longer. The fire burns were superficial; they would heal in no time (or at least he hoped they would). He knew he was hallucinating at the moment though; England was mumbling some mumbo jumbo and Alfred swore up and down to himself that he saw what he _thought_ was a green rabbit with wings at one point.

But he could feel his skin knitting itself together again. England still had scratches visible on his face, and his bushy eyebrows were a little darker with soot.

Alfred tried to move and sit up, but felt slight pressure on his back. He didn't resist. "You need to sleep," was all he heard England say before he finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

* * *

**A/N: Welcome to _Stars and Stripes Forever. _ This collection won't be updated quite as regularly as _Eternal Guardian_, usually when inspiration either strikes or you have a prompt/scene that you want to see. All of these ficlets will take place 1941 – 1945… or in other words, during World War Two in _Eternal Guardian's _storyline. Thanks to Life on Vega for her help with this! **

**If you happen to have a request for a particular scene or an idea for a prompt, feel free to leave your suggestions/ideas/requests in a review/PM/Tumblr message :) Comics and film (for Captain America) are fair game. Also, not all of the stories will be comedic, some will be darker but still qualify for the T rating, I do have some plans of my own ;). Captain America and all related media belong to Marvel. Axis Powers Hetalia and all related media belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.**


	2. Orders

**II**

**Orders**

* * *

"The final casualty count came to seven individuals, four dead, three wounded. The SSR also shelved the Super-Soldier Project; there's nothing they can do with it anymore. The creator of the serum, your Doctor Erskine, was among the dead," England said, tossing the folder over to Alfred, who easily caught them but grimaced when he stretched new pink skin. The two were in the medical wing, where Alfred was supposedly recovering from the fire blast.

"Four dead…Erskine…" Alfred's voice trailed off as he remembered the doctor's kind disposition and constant faith in others, regardless of nationality. Alfred looked down, determined not to let England see the despair on his face. Erskine…he didn't deserve to die like this, in a foreign land far from home. Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the oncoming frustration; they had been _so damn close_ only to have it literally blow up in their faces. "Does it say anywhere in here who did it and why?"

"I know reading is a difficult task for you sometimes, _but,"_ England said, speaking over Alfred's protests, "According to the report I just gave you, it was that man from _your_ State Department. He activated the hand grenade he left in his seat behind us, shot Erskine, stole the last bottle of serum, and then tried to escape."

"How long was I out?" Alfred asked, frowning at the report. He couldn't have been out _that _long…

"Twenty hours."

Oh, okay maybe he could have.

Alfred finally groaned, resting his head in his hands. "I knew the State Department didn't like me, but I didn't realize they hated me this much."

"Regardless…" England coughed, and then said in slightly stiff tone, "Thank you, for, ah, saving me back there. Perhaps, if we have a moment and you happen to be in London…" he broke off, visibly flustered. "Just, _thank you_."

Alfred raised an eyebrow and tried not to crack a grin; it would ruin the moment.

_Knock, knock._

Both men turned, and Alfred relaxed when he recognized Michael Fellows, an American Marine whose duty was to protect Alfred (and keep him out of trouble) from external threats. He'd originally signed on two years ago, and if all went well, had about four years left before stepping back to allow a younger handler watch the energetic nation. But for now, the dark-haired soldier was here to stay, and was one of the few people who knew about the nation personifications.

"Hey Mike!" Alfred greeted, carefully pulling his shirt up to cover up any remaining burns and marks; Michael was stressed enough without having to know more about injuries he could not have prevented.

Michael smiled, but Alfred still detected the guilt underneath. "Alfred, Sir Kirkland," he said, nodding respectfully to England. "I came as soon as I heard the news. I apologize for not coming sooner, I thought you were still in Washington D.C., sir," he said quietly, concern flickering in his dark eyes.

Alfred shrugged, forcing a smile for Michael's benefit. "Ah, you didn't miss much. Just war mobilization and a failed attempt at creating a secret weapon," he said, the attempted good cheer falling flat even to his ears.

Michael's smile faded, but he did not voice his thoughts. "I also came here to let you know that I will be accompanying you wherever you go. President Roosevelt has asked that you stay with the Strategic Scientific Reserve for now. Apparently, General Phillips has been given a new set of orders and objectives," he said quietly.

Alfred frowned. "What about the war?" he asked, looking pointedly at Michael's dress uniform.

Michael shrugged. "The war will probably still be here when we transfer units, won't it?"

"I guess." Alfred mentally sighed; either Michael was playing dumb or he honestly didn't realize that Alfred was torn between guilt and relief; guilt because he was keeping an able-bodied soldier off the front lines and relief that he was keeping a friend out of harm's way. Alfred stretched, hid the grimace from stretching a still-sore shoulder, and then said, "Well, I guess all you and I have to do is just wait for future orders. Right now, Kirkland and I, uh, still need to get our stories straight for when General Phillips comes around asking how the hell we survived the blast…"

"Blast? What blast?" Michael asked, his tone bordering between concern and demand.

"_Nothing_ that hasn't been taken care of already," Alfred said calmly but firmly. "Although…please do me a favor and send a telegram to President Roosevelt and tell him that there _may_ be more Nazi spies in the government."

Michael frowned, as though he desperately wanted to question Alfred further, but his inner soldier overruled that curiosity. Michael saluted before turning and leaving the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Alfred watched him leave before turning to an annoyed England. "What's biting you _now?_" Alfred asked, finally letting his annoyance to come through.

"We have just seen the results of allowing one spy to operate in your State Department, this close to you. What's to say that this 'Michael' isn't one too?" England asked irritably.

Alfred didn't even realize that he was reacting to England's insinuation until England barked "_Back off America!"_ Then Alfred's attention came back into focus to find that he was towering over England, and then he stepped away, trying to rein back his temper.

"I…_understand_ where you're coming from with that, but Mike would _never _do that." Alfred was only angering England further, he could tell, so he forced himself to be the mature one and back off. "It's just that, those guys, including Mike, go through a rigorous selection process, so I'm _sure_ he'd never betray me."

"I hope your faith is in the right place, and that your handlers never betray you the future," England said quietly, looking away from Alfred. He coughed and then asked, "Remind me, what is it that…Michael does anyway?"

"Keeps me out of trouble mostly. Sometimes whoever's got the job at the time takes care of me when something happens in the country. The guy who was with me during prohibition was awesome; he knew when to turn a blind eye." Alfred shrugged. "The day after Thanksgiving, a couple weeks ago, I told Mike to take December off, y'know, to spend time with his family. He'd been with me since he'd started almost two years ago, and I figured he deserved some time off, but he refused to go at first. I finally coaxed him to leave on December fifth."

"And Pearl Harbor happened two days later," England finished.

"Yeah. Which probably means Mike's not leaving my side for a while now, probably until the war is over." Alfred stretched out on the hospital bed and said, "So, what _is_ our story?"

England blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Alfred gestured to the closed room door and said "Phillips knows that he left us both in the observation room _before_ the grenade went off. There wasn't much time between him leaving and the bomb going off, so unless we knew to leave quickly, which we didn't, then by all rights I should be dead right now and you injured. If we say that we left quickly however, that would imply we knew about it and so left it in an act of sabotage."

"_Or,_ we saw it and were trying to save our skins," England said, rolling his eyes. "Honestly America, you _always_ complicate things more than necessary. In fact, if you just-"

"_Jones!"_

Alfred scowled as England jumped at the muffled and albeit abrupt yell from the other side of the door. "England, I swear to God once the war is over, I'm legally changing my name to 'Jones F. Alfred', so he'll yell '_Alfred!"_ instead of "_Jones!'_ all the time. It's starting to get tiring," he said as both nations heard rapidly approaching footsteps.

"Since whenever has your own laws stopped you from doing something like changing your name _illegally?"_

Alfred snorted. "England, England, England," he said, raising a hand as though stop his fellow nation from complaining too much. "As the personification of the United States, it is my duty to set a good example for my-"

"Revolution. Prohibition." England leaned forward and hissed, "_Your _pilots in _my_ air force." Dark bushy brows pulled together as England pulled off a scowl that Alfred hadn't seen since his entry into the First World War. "Do you _want_ me to come up with a fourth example?"

Alfred was about to flip England off with a 'No thanks I'm good' when they both heard a rather loud yet brief argument outside; apparently Michael had placed himself as guard outside, and was risking Phillips's unleashed wrath for the sake of calming the general down before he riled up either Alfred or England. Then, after both sets of voices quieted, the door open and a stiffened Phillips entered; he clearly wasn't used to a lower-ranked soldier chewing him out.

"Ah, Sir Kirkland," Phillips said, ignoring Alfred at the moment. Ignoring the squeak of indignation, Phillips continued saying, "Sir Kirkland, I apologize profusely about all of this happening."

"On the contrary, my companions were rather impressed with Rogers's actions in stopping the assassin. They will definitely be including this in their reports," England said, smoothly placing a smile over the scowl from earlier.

"Wait, what? Who stopped him?" Alfred cut in, earning a glare from Phillips.

"Rogers. After the blast went off, Klemson, the guy from the State Department, shot Erskine, and then stole the last bottle of serum. He shot his way out of the labs, but Rogers gave chase despite the fact he was barefoot. Unfortunately, as soon as he caught up to Klemson, Klemson committed suicide by pill. The last bottle of serum he had was smashed, so while we can breathe with relief that the Nazis don't have the serum, we can also curse because _we_ don't have it either." Phillips sighed and then said, "Senator Brandt meanwhile is useless because _he_ was the one who brought Klemson, and seems to think that I've forgiven him enough to allow him meddling into our business even more."

"Despite the loss of serum however, Agent Carter has informed me that a sample of Rogers's blood was taken for analysis," England said, and Phillips nodded in agreement. Alfred narrowed his eyes; Phillips wasn't about to replace him with England, was he?

"What happens now then?" Alfred finally asked.

"The project's getting shelved, and I'm sending Rogers back to Lehigh until I figure out what to do with him. I just got him out of Brandt's grubby little paws, and I'm going to keep him in one place so I can keep track of him while I'm out of the country," Phillips said as he searched briefly through the sheaf of paperwork he'd brought with him; Alfred hadn't noticed it until now.

"Why not give him Special Forces training? He's already got basic training, we could give him more," Alfred suggested.

Phillips snorted. "Already got that covered, just waiting for the official confirmation of orders. In the meantime, the _entire _SSR is being shipped out to London so we can operate from our new headquarters. Roosevelt wants us chasing down a new target: the Nazi deep science division. Still don't know the division's specific name yet, but the assassin was from them." Phillips paused speaking to catch his breath before adding, "_You_ are coming to London with us because I still have to keep an eye on you. That guard of yours outside, Michael Fellows, is coming along too because I can't watch you twenty-four/seven, so he's going to do that for me."

"Well, _that_ worked out surprisingly well," Alfred muttered to England, who narrowed his eyes at him. Louder, Alfred said, "Looks like you and I will get to hang out a lot!" He nudged England playfully with an elbow, and moved back fast enough to avoid the swipe from the Englishman.

"No, I don't think we will," England snapped as Phillips set the paperwork down.

"Don't even think about it Jones," Phillips warned. "Sir Kirkland, I assure you that Mr. Jones will be too busy to bother you."

As the two others continued talking, Alfred let his mind wander. It would be nice if he could convince Phillips to let Steve come with them to London, it wasn't fair just to send him back to camp just because the experiment had ended in disaster. That way, Alfred could come clean about his real position in the U.S. Army; he hated lying to Steve like this. As far as Steve was concerned, Alfred was a regular soldier with an unspecified rank. But he could sense Steve's probing questions in the letters, and he was careful to avoid answering them. On the other hand, they could continue comfortably in each other's presence if Steve _didn't_ know.

The other thing was that if Steve came along, Alfred wouldn't be alone in London. Alfred didn't know if his brother Matthew or if England's old nemesis Francis would be in London as well, but chances were good that if they were, Alfred wouldn't get to see them until he was acceptably healed from Pearl Harbor and out of Phillips's control. England obviously was out of the question; he'd made it crystal clear at the end of the last war that he didn't want Alfred in his presence for longer than necessary.

"Excuse me?"

A timid female voice drew England and Phillips from their discussion and Alfred out of his thoughts. A young brunette in a secretarial uniform was standing in the doorway, Michael hovering right behind her as though ready to pounce her in case she did something threatening. Her face was a pinkish color, but Alfred couldn't tell if it was embarrassment or anxiety. "A-a letter for Mr. Kirkland? From London?" the secretary said, holding the envelope out at arm's length.

Frowning, England reached forward and took the envelope from her, causing Phillips to snort suddenly and take a step back from the letter. "What is that _smell?_" Phillips muttered as he reached for his paperwork and started skimming through it. England meanwhile opened the letter and fanned the air as he read its contents.

Judging from England's darkening expression, Alfred could only guess at what the letter said.

"General Phillips? May I ask you a question?" England's tone was controlled and calm. The colony in Alfred's subconscious immediately recognized the tone, and Alfred sat up in bed and scooted away as far as he could without being blatantly obvious about it.

"Of course. If the answer is confidential though, I'll let you know." Phillips turned away from the trembling secretary and waited expectantly.

"According to this letter, I am supposed to train this…Super Soldier? Since when did _this_ order happen?" England asked very calmly, raising an eyebrow in expectation.

"You're supposed to be _in charge_ of the Super Soldier's training. I had to work out a deal with the SSR's British liaison, Agent Carter, in order to have an American test subject for an Allied project." Phillips didn't even look ashamed or embarrassed as he spoke, and Alfred silently cheered for him as the general looked up at a peeved England. "Test subjects are American, Special Forces trainers are British." Phillips gestured to the letter and said, "Look at it this way, there's only one soldier you have to train, not twenty. Clearly, your boss thought you were the best fit for the job." With that, Phillips turned back to the secretary. Alfred nearly shouted for Phillips's attention; didn't he know that turning his back to an irritated and angry England was a fatal idea?

But even England was waylaid from his outburst when he waved the letter in the air in his exasperation and both he and Alfred were hit with a rose-scented blast. "Whoa, what was _that_?" Alfred asked, trying not to start coughing.

"You, girl!" England barked, startling the secretary and Phillips. "Who gave you this letter?"

The poor secretary, with three high-ranked officers and one jumpy guard staring at her while waiting for an answer, swallowed nervously. "W-we don't know him, he's at the hospital entrance…"

"His _name _if you will," England all but snarled.

"M-Monsieur Bonnefoy, sir. He says that he's here in the States to recuperate from the war in Europe…he says he's taking a break from the war now that the United States has joined the war effort. A-apparently, M-Mr. Churchill told him to take the letter to you," the girl stammered, wide brown eyes darting between England and Phillips; Alfred hadn't yelled or spoken to her yet, so he wasn't quite a threat yet, and she couldn't see Michael and Phillips at the same time, so she settled for keeping an eye on the bigger threat.

Alfred carefully watched England, just in case things got bloody soon, but the Englishman just closed his eyes and released a sigh. "I have done things in my past that I'm not proud of, and I've always known that some day I would go to Hell for all my past crimes. I just didn't think that day would come so soon," England said finally, turning to Alfred. The American would be the only one who understood what he was talking about.

Alfred frowned; why was England talking like that? "But you'll be in Virginia near where…"

"Where we first met. Ever." England caught his breath and then said through clenched teeth, "I'll be in the United States. With Francis Bonnefoy. In a region that holds too many memories for me. If the phantoms don't kill me first, then Francis will." England gathered his coat, but paused and stared briefly in the air before whispering something. Then he turned to the secretary in and said, "Please lead the way, Miss."

The girl blushed even more, but nodded and gestured for him to follow her. Michael closed the door after he left, leaving Phillips and Alfred alone in the room.

After a few moments in silence, Phillips turned and bluntly asked, "Do you think he's always like that?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Melodramatic."

Alfred shrugged. "He's a big Shakespeare fan, so he's into theatrics. Contrary to what you think and what he said, Kirkland and I actually knew each other pretty well prior to his visit here. _Trust_ me when I say that his attitude could have been much worse," Alfred said, stretching back out on the bed now that the danger was gone.

Phillips eyed him suspiciously for a few minutes. "Jones, I have a question for _you_."

Alfred smirked. "Of course. If the answer is confidential though, I'll let you know," he said, mimicking Phillips's tone and words from earlier.

Phillips grinned nastily. "Remember when I told you a while ago that your doctors said you were crying out for someone named 'Arthur' while you were still delirious from that shoulder injury?" he asked casually.

"Yeah…" Alfred's voice trailed off; he already didn't like where this conversation was going.

Phillips now looked smug as he swooped in for the figurative kill. "Refresh my memory; if you know him as well as you claim, then surely you know that his first name is 'Arthur', correct?" he said, the smirk spreading. "Is he the 'Arthur' you were crying out for?"

The horror on Alfred's face answered his question.

"G-General…" Alfred stammered as he straightened up and then scrambled out of bed to properly face the general. Phillips meanwhile had started laughing. "General Phillips, I swear I'll be on my _best_ behavior while I am still healing under your command and I promise to be extremely obedient if _you_ swear not to tell Kirkland _anything_ I ever said while not in the best frame of mind…"

"Does that include all the dumb things you said at that meeting with Agent Carter and the British ambassador a couple weeks ago?" Phillips asked with a smile still painted on his face.

"_Yes!_" Alfred didn't care if he sounded desperate. Which he knew he did.

Phillips pretended to think about it for a few minutes, and then stuck his hand out. "We have a deal then."

"Thank you." Alfred shook the general's hand, feeling extremely relieved.

His secret was safe for now.

* * *

**A/N: Geez Alfred, _someone_ got lucky that Phillips was too distracted to inquire about how you survived that blast there...**

**Requests will stay open for the duration of this story. :) For everyone following _Eternal Guardian_ as well, Chapter Four is in process of being typed up. Michael Fellows is an original character, and requires my permission to be used elsewhere.**


	3. Camp

**III**

**Camp**

* * *

_I gotta admit though, I'm a little nervous working under General Phillips because when he's not focused on the war, he's focused on me, and not in a good way sometimes._

_Well, I've got to go because we're about to leave and I gotta be on my best behavior since Phillips has… well, let's just say that I have an invested interest in staying on his good side. I'll try to send a postcard from London, unless they're being rationed too, but please try to get out here. We'll have fun while we still can!_

_Hope to see you soon!_

_Alfred_

_P.s. There's this guy you're about to meet soon, and he's going to act like he can take care of himself, but Arthur Kirkland is a very good friend of mine (he'll deny that), and we didn't exactly part on good terms. Please do me a HUGE favor and keep an eye on him? I'm worried about him…_

Steven Rogers's smile faded as he read the closing lines to Alfred's letter; there was much that his friend wasn't telling him, but he let it slide for now. Not only was it not his business, but also he hadn't been very forthcoming with information either.

He still remembered his first (and so far, only) encounter with Alfred F. Jones. At first, he had been another commanding officer that had accompanied General Phillips into the recruiting office, but he'd been talking to other recruits when Phillips talked to Steve about participating in Project Rebirth. Steve had left the recruiting station only to slide on the ice that coated the sidewalk. He had absolutely no idea what to expect from the towering officer, but being helped up was definitely an unexpected outcome. Alfred was also friendly, something else Steve hadn't been prepared for. While the impromptu coffee get-together was cut short, Steve still felt an easy camaraderie with Alfred.

They'd been exchanging letters since then, getting to know each other better. Steve learned that Alfred had a Canadian half-brother and both were officers in their respective armies. Neither Steve nor Alfred told each other _everything _though, seeing as most of it was classified (for Steve at least, he didn't know what Alfred's story was). Steve still felt a little guilty for withholding the details concerning Project Rebirth from Alfred, but Phillips had ruled prior to the operation that _no one_ was to know about the process itself, and Alfred had counted in the 'no one' category.

Of course, that left Steve with the problem of how to explain his drastic transformation the next time he saw Alfred.

"Private Rogers? We're here."

"Thank you, Corporal," Steve said, slipping the letter back into the envelope and placed it into his jacket pocket. He gathered his few belongings before opening the car door, acknowledging the driver one more time with a nod before getting out altogether. He mentally reminded himself to be easy on the car door; he was still adjusting to his newfound strength. One of the nurses had warned him that it wouldn't be a simple and quick process and that it would take time.

"Rogers!"

He turned as the car pulled away, and smiled as Major Samson approached him. According to one of the SSR instructors Steve had met the last time he was at Lehigh, the major was several years younger than Phillips, but where Phillips used his temper to get his way, Samson used more subtle tactics of emotional persuasion. The other difference between the two officers was that Samson rarely used those methods, and only did so when the situation was desperate and the participants were stubborn.

"Rogers, I almost didn't recognize you there," Samson said warmly, shaking Steve's hand. "Welcome back to Virginia and Camp Lehigh. Nothing has changed much since your last visit, so you shouldn't have too much trouble moving around. We're just going to slip you into the general morning and afternoon drills, but Phillips has requested that you take Special Forces training. I'll get into that later though," Samson said. He gestured with his head and said, "Walk with me for a few minutes, and then I'll let you go and settle down before dinner."

"Yes sir," Steve replied, keeping pace with the major as they began walking. "There are a few important things you need to know. On paper, General Phillips is the source of any power or jurisdiction that the SSR has in any given area of the military. Following that logic, since he has been transferred to London, he no longer has any power over what happens in Camp Lehigh. Or over what happens to you, seeing that Project Rebirth was shelved," Major Samson explained as they walked toward the command center. "But," Samson continued before Steve could speak, "Phillips, Senator Brandt, and Agent Carter all managed to cooperate together long enough to make sure that you weren't cut loose. Phillips may be unhappy that Erskine's dead, but he's not ready to let you go either, especially when there's a small chance you could tip the scales in the Allies' favor."

"Senator Brandt wanted to talk to me about something, after the German spy died. Phillips didn't even give him a chance to start talking," Steve said as Samson pushed the command center entrance open and the two men walked in.

"I'm not surprised. Klemson, if that's even his real name, was there as Brandt's guest. Foreign dignitaries, namely the British, were there for the demonstration and were placed at great risk, not to mention that an American commander nearly died in the destruction of the observation deck. Phillips was _livid_," Samson said, reaching over and swiping a folder off of a secretary's desk. "Now let's see where you're at…"

"What will happen to me next then?" Steve asked, mindful to keep his tone neutral.

"Several British instructors will be arriving tomorrow to begin the Special Forces training. They'll take tomorrow to recuperate from traveling, and begin the next day. The leader and primary instructor, Sir Arthur Kirkland, came with the highest recommendations. I don't know if he'll get here tomorrow or not; last I heard, he chose to stay in New York City until he reunited with his second-in-command before coming here. I can't remember the name of his subordinate off the top of my head, but he's from Montreal," Samson added as the two left the building and walked toward the barracks. Samson opened the folder and muttered, "Now where did I put that…"

Steve however had caught onto the only full name that Samson had mentioned. He supposed it was safe to assume that his new instructor was the same Arthur Kirkland that Alfred asked him to keep an eye out for. It would have to be discreet of course; Steve got the feeling that Kirkland would not take it very well if he caught Steve in the act. Alfred probably ran the same or even a greater risk…

"Oh, and before I forget, I have a question for you; what languages other than English do you speak?" Samson asked.

Steve grimaced. "High school French and very limited German, sir."

"Hmm. _In case_ they, meaning the higher-ups, do decide that they want you out on the front lines after all, you might want to brush up on your French and study German." Major Samson frowned thoughtfully before he said, "There is a French officer arriving soon, one of the leaders of the French Resistance. He's recuperating from war injuries before heading back out, maybe he can help you out there. As for the German, well," Samson paused to look at the immediate camp before he added, "Well, _when _the kid decides to resurface again, I'll see if I can talk to Bucky Barnes into helping you. Kid has a knack for languages, but he's still underage so he can't enlist yet. Higher-ups can't get their paws on him either."

"I hope sir, there won't be a war anymore by the time he's old enough to enlist," Steve said quietly. "How old is he now?" he finally asked.

"Fifteen. Birthday was a couple months ago. He lives here at Lehigh and trains with the men. I also _think_ he smuggles things in and out of camp for the soldiers, but I haven't caught him red-handed yet. He's harmless, really, so I'm not _too_ worried about him. The only thing to watch out for is his temper, which he's inherited from his father. He's gotten into plenty of scuffles here, but I just drag him away for a cool-down each time," Samson said grimly.

When they arrived to the barracks, Samson came to a stop, Steve pausing beside him. "This packet details the schedule, your training assignments, and everything else in between. Bugle for dinner blows at 1800 hours sharp," Samson said, handing the folder over to Steve.

"Thank you, sir."

With that, Major Samson smiled and then walked away.

* * *

"So how long have you been here?" Steve asked his newfound friend as the two walked away from the mess hall later that evening. Steve had been minding his business when a fight had broken out, and the scruffy sergeant now walking next to him had swooped in like a hawk and split the fighters apart before Steve could step in himself.

Sergeant Mike Duffy snorted. "Too long if you ask me. I still remember when Sergeant Barnes used to bring that brat of his around. Men loved that kid, still do. And he'd be better if he wasn't such a pain and a troublemaker."

"Samson said he lives here now?" Steve asked, mindful of his pace; he still felt slightly awkward at this new height and gait.

"Yeah, but he went to bed a while ago, around eight I think. Kid doesn't last long since the instructors put him through the paces with the recruits, and it wears him out faster. It was a blessing in disguise when the kid asked to train with the men," Duffy replied, smirking. "Keeps him busy and out of trouble during the day, leaves him too tired at night to start something."

"Excuse me?"

The two men looked up to see a young ensign standing there, tapping his foot. "I'm here for Private Rogers. Major Samson wants to see him," he explained.

Steve frowned. "Did he specify about what he wanted to talk about?" he asked.

"No, but he shouldn't be kept waiting," the ensign said, fidgeting before gesturing for Steve to follow him.

"I guess I'll see you around, Rogers, stay out of trouble. I've got to check on the kid anyway to make sure he's actually asleep and not out and about," Duffy said, winking as Steve left.

Steve just grinned before following the insistent ensign.

As it turned out, Samson's French officer had arrived. He seemed right at home in Samson's office, sipping wine while lounging in the office chair. His blue coat was draped around him to ward off the persistent chill that seemed to hover in the air this winter, and there was a loose scarf barely visible underneath the wavy blond hair. He seemed disinterested in the things going on around him as the ensign spoke with Samson before saluting and departing, leaving Steve in the office with Major Samson and the French officer.

"Rogers, this is Captain Bonnefoy. He is one of the leaders of the French Resistance, and has come to the United States to recuperate from the war," Samson said as Steve leaned forward to shake hands with the Frenchman, who stood up to properly greet him. "Captain Bonnefoy, this is Private Steven Rogers. He was a part of the SSR's Project Rebirth."

"A pleasure, sir," Steve said as they shook hands; he couldn't help but notice that for a man who appeared to be young, Bonnefoy's skin felt cold and the bones fragile.

"_Non,_ the pleasure is all mine," Bonnefoy replied with a smile, but it didn't quite reach his blue eyes. Steve just smiled respectfully before sitting down again simultaneously with Bonnefoy, who sat behind Samson's desk.

"Wine?" Samson offered. Steve declined, but Bonnefoy raised his empty glass in silent request. After pouring the wine, Samson sat back down with a groan. "Rogers, Captain Bonnefoy and I were just talking about the political and war atmospheres back in Europe," he said, leaning back down in his chair. He glanced at Bonnefoy and asked, "Where did you leave off?"

"Recent news. According to our spies, Hitler abandoned his plans for seizing Moscow only days before Pearl Harbor. We did not think he would consider engaging the United States after Pearl Harbor when such a failure was so close to mind," Bonnefoy said. He sighed and said, "My… British colleague is, ah, concerned that the Americans may stretch themselves too far and will be unable to deliver." He sipped his wine again and said, "I fear that I share his concerns."

"Don't count us out yet, we've barely gotten started," Steve said, straightening up in his seat. "We-"

"Please keep in mind, Private, that my home has already fallen and I do not want to risk permanently losing it," Bonnefoy interrupted. He narrowed his eyes slightly and said, "Forgive me for being concerned, but there is more at risk than tracts of land."

"I understand, sir, but we're not arriving as late as we did last time. Even with that taken into consideration, there have been Americans who traveled overseas before now in order to fight in the war," Steve said, reminding himself to remain calm.

"The war started back in March of 1939, Private," Bonnefoy countered. "Much damage has been done regardless of who is fighting for whom."

"I know that, sir. But we are here now and not holding back like we did during the Great War. It's not _that_ late in the war so don't count us out because of something we did in the past. That's something that can't ever be changed," Steve said.

Bonnefoy raised an eyebrow. "Do people not learn from history?"

"We learned. We're here now, and the war will turn out differently in our favor," Steve said. "We may not win this war by next Christmas, but it will end sooner than if we arrived late again." He leaned forward and said, "Monsieur Bonnefoy, we will liberate Paris."

Bonnefoy leaned back in his seat, silently calculating Steve, who stood his ground despite the instinctual fear that he was currently experiencing. Finally, the Frenchman said, "I am holding you to that, Private Rogers."

"Well, the first order of business will be getting to French soil without getting blown to bits," Samson said, stepping in at that point. He glanced at Bonnefoy and said, "Rogers is currently under General Phillips's jurisdiction, but Sir Kirkland will be arriving soon to start his Special Forces training." Samson offered a smile and asked, "Do you know Arthur Kirkland, Monsieur Bonnefoy?"

A broad grin split the Frenchman's face. "Ah yes, Kirkland and I have known each other for quite some time now," he said, leaning forward in interest. "When is he to arrive here?"

"Tomorrow or the day after. He was waiting for his second-in-command to come down from Montreal before he came down here to the camp," Samson said, pouring a little wine for himself.

Bonnefoy noticeably perked up at the mention of a second-in-command. "Did Sir Kirkland happen to mention the name of his subordinate?" he asked in a casual voice.

Samson smiled apologetically. "If he mentioned a name, I've forgotten it already."

Bonnefoy frowned. "Was it perhaps 'Matthew Williams'?" he asked.

"Who?" Samson asked.

Steve felt a slight pang of pity for Bonnefoy; the Frenchman sighed and sagged back in his chair, as though he'd encountered that question one too many times for his preference. "I hope you and I can get along, Major Samson," Bonnefoy muttered soft enough for Samson _not_ to hear, but Steve heard it anyway. Louder, he said, "Matthew Williams is a very dear friend of mine from Canada who works together with Kirkland frequently. I was merely mentioning Williams's name to see if it would jog your memory."

"Ah, okay. That clears things up," Samson said, visibly relaxing. Leaning forward, he said, "Actually, you did just remind me of a small favor I wanted to ask of you."

Surprise, and then guarded interest, flickered across the Frenchman's face. "Oh? What kind of…_ favor_ were you thinking about?" he asked, arching an eyebrow as a smirk settled on his face.

"Bonnefoy, I am warning you now that your reputation precedes you, and I will not tolerate any of _that_ kind of behavior here at Camp Lehigh," Samson warned, his eyes narrowing slightly. "There is a hotel down the road from here, and I will not hesitate to send you there the _second_ the complaints start coming in."

"You needn't worry. Regardless of what Sir Kirkland has told you, I am already... with someone," Bonnefoy replied mildly.

"Experience tells me that commitment doesn't always keep the eye from wandering," Samson countered.

Bonnefoy gave a thin smile. "Very well, I concede this one to you," he said lightly. Steve felt as though he missed something, but Bonnefoy continued speaking before he could even mention it. "But in all seriousness, what is this favor you want to ask of me?" the Frenchman asked, finishing his wine.

Samson gestured to Steve and said, "Please bring him to fluency in French. I strongly believe that Phillips has something in mind for him, and that involves going overseas. We can work at your convenience if that would work better for you."

Bonnefoy scrutinized Steve for a few moments, and Steve forced himself not to squirm. Then Bonnefoy looked back at Samson and said "Why him in particular?"

"Because if we _all_ play our cards right, he can fulfill that promise of his to liberate Paris," Samson said, his calm tone matching Bonnefoy's.

Bonnefoy quietly regarded Major Samson before nodding, his expressions masking themselves before he turned to look over at Steve. "Shall we start tomorrow at noon? There are plenty of opportunities to practice tomorrow that will be good starting points. I'll have to assess how much you know first, and where we can improve before we start with new material," he said, thoughtfully tilting his head.

"Yes sir, and thank you sir, for agreeing to do this," Steve said, not bothering to hide the unexpected note of relief in his voice.

Bonnefoy smiled broadly, almost predatorily. "Not a problem. And please, call me Francis. 'Sir' sounds too stuffy and British," he said just as there was a series of knocks on the office door.

"Come in!" Samson shouted, starting to stand up.

Steve smiled when he recognized Sergeant Duffy. Duffy nodded briefly to Steve, gave Francis a clearly suspicious once-over and then turned to Major Samson. "Just checked on the Barnes kid, sir. He's already in bed and asleep." Duffy frowned, and then asked, "He's not a spy in disguise, right?"

Samson looked surprised. "Pardon?"

"Bucky has been going to bed without a fuss for the last two weeks. What happened to the little hellion that used to kick and bite whenever it was bedtime?"

"Not only has he matured, but I did tell him that I wanted him to be on his best behavior for the next two weeks while our guests are here," Samson said, forcing back a sigh. "You just need a little more confidence in the boy." He turned to Francis and said, "Sergeant Duffy, please escort Monsieur Bonnefoy to his quarters. Rogers, reveille is at 0600 sharp, and you've had a long day. I suggest you get some rest. You're dismissed."

"Remember, we start at lunch," Francis said to Steve before offering a loose salute to Samson. "_Bonne nuit, messieurs!"_ he added before gliding out of the office after Sergeant Duffy, who seemed a little caught off guard at the Frenchman's flamboyant attitude.

"Rogers, remind me to keep an eye on that one," Samson said, allowing wearied expression to cross his face.

"Yes sir." Then Steve saluted and left as Samson nodded in response.

* * *

It was official.

Bucky Barnes wasn't getting paid enough to do this.

He politely checked the grandfather clock behind the two finely dressed women on the other side of the small parlor. It was just past nine, which meant that Sergeant Duffy would have already checked Bucky's bed to make sure that the fifteen-year old was asleep like he should be. Which Bucky obviously was not. Bucky hoped that Frankie, the son of one of the two sniper instructors, remembered _not_ to snore when pretending to be Bucky. The whole setup was designed in order to fool Duffy into thinking that Bucky was still on the campgrounds.

"Also give this to Toby, make sure that pal of his, Henry, doesn't see it either," Sarah, one of the two women, said as she handed over an unopened pack of cigarettes. "See? I even wrote his name on it!"

"I'll make sure he gets it, ma'am," Bucky replied, dropping the pack into his small bag. "Anything else before I leave?"

"Tell Toby I've got chocolate for him, but he's got to come here and get it," Sarah replied, smirking as she took her embroidery project back from her sister Eleanor.

"Yes ma'am," Bucky replied, silently grateful that Sarah was the last person he had to visit today; she definitely loved to talk. "Well ladies, it has been a pleasure, but I must-"

"Wait!" Eleanor said suddenly. "I have one question." A smirk settled on her face and she asked innocently, "Are there any British officers stationed at Lehigh now or in the future?"

"Ellie! Leave the poor man alone! Just because he had a military uniform does not mean he was going to Lehigh!" Sarah scolded. She turned to Bucky and said, "We ran into this British officer downstairs, and he was very polite with us until Ellie tried to woo him by speaking French. He remained polite, but it was quite clear he didn't want anything more to do with Ellie. I told her to forget about him, but she's persistent."

Bucky smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but as far as I know there aren't any British officers at Lehigh," he said, and Eleanor sagged in disappointment. Resisting the urge to check the grandfather clock again, he said, "Thank you very much for your company, however I must be going if I'm to make it back on time."

Sarah put on a pout. "I enjoy your company too much," she finally said before going back to her embroidery. "Just one question though, how did you get out of the camp in the first place?" she asked, pausing in her embroidery long enough to look up.

"Army camp supplier makes two trips into town once a week. He lets me ride with him and I don't tell Major Samson about the unauthorized guests he brings into camp every now and then. Everyone goes home happy," Bucky said, smirking.

Sarah laughed. "You _are_ devious, Bucky Barnes. Well, good night then."

"Thank you ma'am," Bucky said, saluting before he turned and left the hotel room and started heading down the hall

The army supplier had better not left yet. Bucky had had a hard time explaining himself the last time he got left behind in town. A bus carrying recruits had stopped in town in order to collect last minute supplies, and Bucky easily sweet-talked his way onboard. He'd just happen to be unlucky that General Phillips was onboard. Then Major Samson wasn't pleased to find Bucky among the incoming recruits, but Bucky had managed to _barely_ save his skin with a well-placed lie. Since then, the army supplier had been more careful about keeping track of him, but he'd been slipping up lately…

"No, his name is Chester Phillips."

Bucky paused in his tracks, and then, holding his breath, slowly backpedaled down the hall, ears seeking out the accented voice. He had met Phillips in person _once_, and it was not a pleasant memory.

"That's true, but tomorrow we're expected at Camp Lehigh. No doubt the bloody frog is already there…"

_There_.

The voice had slipped into an angry mutter, but Bucky pinpointed the door anyway. He suspected it was the same British officer that had spurned Eleanor's misplaced affections earlier that evening. Even holding his breath, he could barely hear the other speaker in the room; who was loud enough for Bucky to discern that there even was a second speaker, but too quiet for Bucky to make out actual words.

"No, he's in London right now, good riddance. Not my first preference of cities to send him, but he's now out of the way, which is the important thing."

Bucky frowned; Phillips got sent to London? And he was out of the way for what _specifically_?

Unless… this was a potential assassin who was talking? Major Samson was the base commander at Lehigh, one of the biggest military training camps in Virginia. If Samson were assassinated, then the camp would be thrown into complete chaos and would delay the arrival of American troops overseas. Such a delay could be costly to the Allies.

That couldn't happen.

Gripping his bag tighter, Bucky ran for the exit. He was going to warn Samson. He didn't care if he got into trouble for sneaking out of the camp.

Saving someone's life was more important.

* * *

**A/N: Just so you all know, you are all the best. :)**

**Bucky: He snuck out of camp. A lot. In one issue, he even had this deal with a training sergeant that if he got the sergeant's risqué magazine for him, then the sergeant would take (sneak) him to the bar the next time he went. (If anyone's curious, a fight broke out at the bar. Samson was not very happy at all). I made up the part about the army supplier though.**

**Yeah. In the comics, the superhero may have been a captain, but Steve Rogers was a private at the time of the Project Rebirth operation. Rogers was a corporal when he first met Bucky Barnes. When I first saw the film, I was like, 'since when did this instant promotion happen?'**


	4. Bear

**IV**

**Bear**

* * *

_Roarrrr!_

Steve shot up in bed… and promptly smacked his head against the bottom of the bunk above him. Clutching his head, eh stumbled out of bed as his other bunkmates groaned and muttered complaints all around him. Francis Hill, the soldier in the bunk above him, rolled over before propping himself up in bed and glaring down at both Steve and Oscar McCallister. "What the hell was _that_?" he finally snapped.

"Definitely not the bugle or alarm clock. Last time I heard that sound outside, I was up north hunting grizzly bears. That was _definitely_ a bear," Oscar said.

The men were quiet as the words sunk in before a second roar snapped them back into reality. Steve grabbed a jacket to put on over his fatigues before ducking out of the barracks, Hill close behind him. If they were under attack, he should help to try and restore order, maybe ensure Major Samson's safety…

He came do a complete stop however as soon as he saw what was outside, Hill and McCallister crashing into him by accident.

A distinct, white polar bear was standing on its hind legs in front of Steve's building, tall and proud as it glared down at three soldiers. Three soldiers were slowly backing away while never breaking eye contact with the enraged animal, only to scramble away when the bear growled. As the bear turned toward Steve and the other spectators, keeping the soldiers in full view, Steve saw that a long wooden pole was dangling from its neck, and that there was a thin circlet of wire barely visible around its neck. A dogcatcher's tool, no doubt it was floating around the camp to catch stray dogs.

The bear made as though to bite the three retreating soldiers, and they jumped out of range, scuttling behind others for safety. Suddenly pacified, the young bear dropped back to all fours and began to sniff the ground as though exploring. Steve felt his heart rate slow back down as a few more recruits cautiously began to approach the bear, curiosity getting the better of them now that the bear wasn't threatening their comrades.

"Moran."

One of the recruits looked up guiltily as his partner kept slinking closer to the bear. "Yeah, Sarge?" he asked.

Steve glanced over to find Sergeant Duffy approaching the group, rifle in hand. "Get that wooden pole and hold the animal still," he said, loading the rifle. Steve couldn't tell if he was loading it with a tranquilizer or not, but Duffy was definitely serious about shooting.

Moran suddenly looked nervous. "Uh, why?" he asked as his friend paused, curious as well.

"Just do it," Duffy ordered. "We cannot afford to risk lives to some wild animal."

"But –"

"That's an order, soldier."

Moran hesitated, and then began to stalk the bear again with his friend. The bear seemed aware of the recruits now; every time they got close enough to snag the wooden pole, the bear abruptly ran away and then stopped again, looking back at the recruits expectantly. This happened several times, and the bear made a high-pitched grumbling sound as the bear trotted closer and closer to Steve and his barracks-mates. There were several soft curses as the bear got close enough to them to couch, and Steve took a step back to avoid getting hit by the pole.

"Rogers, grab the pole," Duffy snapped, startling Steve.

"Sergeant, I don't think it's trying to hurt us, it just wants to play," Steve said, watching as the bear sniffed the ground only to move again when Moran leapt for the pole. The recruit landed face-first onto the ground instead, earning a few laughs from his friends.

"Yeah, well I don't want to," Duffy growled, kneeling in order to get a better aim. "Moran, Reynolds, back off now," he ordered, and both recruits backed off obediently.

"Kuma?"

Steve looked up, and recognized Major Samson and Francis Bonnefoy standing across the clearing with two people Steve didn't recognize: a sandy-blond in a green military uniform and someone who could easily passed for Alfred's identical twin if not for a few notable differences.

"Kuma," the twin called again, successfully catching the bear's attention. The animal paused as the man began to approach it, both completely unaware of Duffy. Kuma, as the bear's name apparently was, let out another happy grumble before trotting obediently back to its master.

Steve saw the sandy-blond man glance at Duffy and frown, bushy eyebrows drawing together in suspicion.

The next few seconds were a blur.

Steve turned and in two strides was at Duffy's side and forcing the rifle barrel _down_ right as Duffy pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the sand near the bear's flank, startling Kuma so badly that the bear roared and stood up on its hind legs, deafening and nearly whacking its master in the head with a claw. Then, as Duffy struggled against Steve in an attempt to fire at the bear again, Kuma's master bravely straightened up to his full height, trying to soothe an upset Kuma. Meanwhile, the sandy-haired man started to lunge in Duffy's direction when Bonnefoy reacted faster, wrapping him in a tight (and clearly unwanted) bear hug from behind, earning a few squawks of indignation.

Kuma, angered now, turned away from his master and fell back to all fours, determinedly charging toward Duffy. Steve heard multiple _clicks_ as instructors pulled their weapons out in order to stop the animal, and Steve just knew this wasn't going to end well –

_Bang!_

Silence fell over the area, coming as quickly as the ruckus had started. For one horrible moment Steve thought that Duffy had somehow managed to shoot Kuma and its master, but his fears were partially assuaged when he saw that the rifle was still aimed at the ground. Looking up, he saw that Major Samson had fired his own pistol in the air. Both Kuma and master were unharmed; the light blond was kneeling and clutching Kuma's neck, his body shielding most of Kuma's neck and head. The bear was nuzzling its master's neck now, a contented rumbling sound coming from its throat.

_Whack! Thunk!_

Samson turned to yell at the offender, but stopped when he saw that it was just the sandy-haired man brushing himself off while Bonnefoy leaned against the nearby wall for support, his face twisted in a pained grimace. "Ah, gentlemen," Samson said, turning to the other soldiers. "My apologies for not informing you of this sooner, but the bear _is_ a, ah, confirmed guest here. He arrived here two hours ago with these two gentlemen," he said, gesturing to the sandy-haired man as well as the blond. "Please leave it alone, and it will leave you alone as well. That will be all for now." With that, Samson turned back to his guests.

"Idiot," Duffy growled as Steve stepped back, letting go of the rifle. "What if it had charged _us_?"

"It didn't, and you almost shot someone," Steve said, gesturing to the nearby blond, who was now rubbing Kuma's head before standing up again.

"Who?" Duffy demanded.

Steve just let it go at that point; he wasn't in the mood to argue or add complications to the already-tense situation just because Duffy was intent on pretending that the bear's master wasn't there. Instead, Steve walked over to where the man was talking sternly to the bear, the latter of which had tilted his head as though listening. Steve came up just in time to hear someone (couldn't have been the bear) ask, "Who are you?"

The blond sighed. "I'm the guy who feeds you, remember?" he said tiredly before looking up and spotting Steve. "Oh, hello, can I help you?" he asked.

"Steve Rogers," Steve said, offering his hand. "I just wanted to make sure that you were all right."

"Oh, thank you. Kumajirou and I are fine. Trust me when I say we've been through much worse. Thank you though, for your concern. My name is Matthew, Matthew Williams," he said, reaching out and accepting Steve's hand.

While Steve definitely remembered Alfred mentioning a Canadian half-brother, he didn't think Alfred mentioned the brother's name. It wouldn't be surprising though, if Matthew Williams was this half-brother; from a distance the two could be mistaken for twins but up close there were subtle differences such as eye color, hair length and texture, and build.

"Private Rogers."

Steve looked over toward the voice, and promptly saluted when he saw Major Samson. "Sir?"

"Please come here for a moment."

"Excuse me," he said to Matthew, who nodded. Steve joined Samson near the edge of the impromptu clearing and stood between Bonnefoy and Samson, facing the stranger in the little group. "You wanted to see me, sir?" he said, glancing at Samson.

"Yes. Private Rogers, this is Sir Arthur Kirkland of the British Special Armed Forces. He'll take charge of your training here at Camp Lehigh," Major Samson said as the sandy-haired man stepped forward and briskly shook Steve's hand. His grip, while strong, also seemed to have a hint of the frailty that Bonnefoy had the night before.

"A pleasure," Kirkland said as Samson casually stepped away. "Before we get started tomorrow morning however, there are a few things I would like to discuss with you regarding conduct and what to expect."

"Of course, sir," Steve replied carefully; Kirkland sounded agitated, and Steve suspected that the nearby Frenchman played a large (negative) role into that agitation.

Said Frenchman magically appeared at Kirkland's side, still limping a little. "Be nice to this one, Arthur, even if he _does_ remind you a little of our mutual American acquaintance. I like him," he said, patting Kirkland's shoulder. Moving his hand before Kirkland could smack him again, he drifted over to Steve and said, "Tea will calm him down, and drink will rile him up. Do not mention _les sourcils_, and you will be fine. I promise." Chuckling, he easily dodged Kirkland's second swipe and continued walking past Steve toward Matthew, who was still comforting Kumajirou.

"Ignore him," Kirkland said in a curt tone. He gestured for Steve to follow him toward the nearby mess hall. "As you will soon learn if you haven't already, Francis Bonnefoy _enjoys_ poking his nose where it isn't wanted, and he can and will most certain will mislead the painfully ignorant when presented with the opportunity. While I have yet to see him do so in wartime, now is not a good time to start. He is to teach you French, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Steve replied a little warily.

"I thought he might," Kirkland said, pushing the mess hall doors open. "In the interest of preserving your reputation and that of the SSR, I suggest that we review what he has taught you in case he tries to slip in something perverted. I will admit that he does have some sanity left, but it's hard to find seeing that most of his brain is soaked in perversion."

"Very well, sir." Steve, remembering Alfred's letter, could see at least one way that he and Kirkland would have disagreed; Kirkland seemed to follow an unwritten rule book to the letter while Alfred seemed to make up the rules as he went along. Their general personalities clashed greatly. "I have a question, sir," Steve said, keeping pace with Kirkland.

"Yes?" Kirkland asked, holding a tray and waiting.

"Do you know an Alfred F. Jones?"

Steve didn't know why he held his breath as though expecting an explosion in reply. Kirkland mulled over the name for a few moments before giving a little exclamation of recognition. "Oh, _Jones_, yes, I know him. He and I were colleagues for a brief time a little while ago. Hopefully our time as colleagues will be as short now as it was last time," he said dismissively.

"I don't think you mean that," Francis said as he walked by the two of them, Matthew at his side.

"I hope I work with _him_ even less than last time. I haven't been very lucky lately," Kirkland grumbled, glowering after Francis's retreating back. "But enough of that. As I stated earlier, there are things I wish to discuss with you before we get started."

"Such as?" Steve asked as the two of them headed to an isolated table with their food.

"Your training regimen for starters. I had an opportunity to speak with several nurses after Project Rebirth about the serum you were given, and the first thing I would like to do is to find your limits so we do not push them in training and on the front lines. Second order of business will be to take your established strengths and weaknesses and improve them. _Then _we will start with Special Forces training. We will work in the mornings, at 0600 hours sharp until, oh, 1400 hours. After that I will release you to the drill sergeants here," Kirkland said as they sat down. "Nothing firm yet, but that is the basic layout."

"Of course, sir," Steve replied. "I have already completed basic training before the… procedure." He hesitated, unsure if Kirkland actually knew about Project Rebirth or was just a spy throwing names around just to catch Steve unawares. "How much do you know about Project Rebirth?" he asked carefully, keeping his voice low.

"Enough. I was there at the personal invitation of General Phillips, along with a few of my colleagues…" Kirkland's voice trailed off, no doubt reflecting the events in Brooklyn. "Makes me wish for the days when there was no war," he finally said.

Steve nodded, although he couldn't sympathize, not knowing the difference between war and peacetime. He himself had been born mid-summer of 1920, July 4th to be exact and had grown up during the Great Depression. His father had served in the Great War, but had died not too long after Steve's birth. "President Roosevelt and his Cabinet seem cautiously optimistic about finishing this one soon enough."

"I hope for my sake, as well as yours, that he will deliver on that," Kirkland replied with a sniff.

"Excuse me?"

The two men looked up to find a young teen standing there, younger than even the recruits. He was wearing a smaller version of the standard fatigues, and had an innocent air about him. Steve didn't find this alarming – he suspected he knew whom this was, considering his age and the fact that he was comfortable around older soldiers – but Kirkland narrowed his green eyes as he stiffened slightly in his chair. "How may I help you?" Kirkland asked in a crisp tone.

"Name's Bucky Barnes, I live around here, so I hear things," the teen said, sliding onto the bench next to Steve. "Since I hear things that others usually don't want me to hear, I'm pretty flexible when it comes to keeping secrets." He leaned forward and whispered, "Such as yours."

For some odd reason, Steve felt a flash of fear and concern for Bucky as Kirkland's scowl deepened; how many people, he briefly wondered, had been subjected to the same intense glare? If Bucky was concerned for his wellbeing, he didn't show it.

"My _secret_?" Kirkland finally growled.

"Yeah. The one that you, Williams, and Bonnefoy share but won't tell Major Samson. I mean, it's kind of odd that three people of different nationalities not only know each other very well, but _somehow_ end up at the same camp at the same time," Bucky said, finally scooting back a little.

"Williams _works_ for me."

"So what does Bonnefoy do?"

Kirkland rolled his eyes. "Even _I _am not so cruel to tell _that_ to a child."

"Fine, but that aside, I know you guys are hiding your true nature. Which, by the way, wasn't so hard to figure out once I had a little help," Bucky said, a little of his cocky confidence showing through for the first time as Kirkland seemed to retreat.

Kirkland studied him in silence for a few minutes. Then he smiled softly and said, "Well, you _are_ quite a clever boy, aren't you? You know my little secret now, so hopefully you also are aware that playing this game with me is not going to be your best idea. Interfere with my duties here, and I promise that things will not end well for you." Leaning forward, he whispered, "Who helped you?"

"Um…" Bucky seemed to be at a momentary loss; Steve realized that Bucky had either heard the secret himself and didn't want to implicate himself, or he genuinely wanted to protect his source. "I won't give you a name, but I can tell you that the source was American," he said, careful to keep his voice even.

"Of course, it was. In fact, I think I already know who it is," Kirkland replied with an innocent smile of his own as Matthew approached the table.

"Excuse me? Arthur, may I please have a word?" he asked, startled when everyone turned to him.

"Don't be mistaken, I_ will_ keep an eye on you," Kirkland growled at Bucky before turning to Matthew. "What is it?"

Instead of speaking aloud, Matthew leaned forward and began whispering urgently in Kirkland's ear. Bucky immediately leaned forward in an attempt to eavesdrop but Steve pulled him back onto the bench. When the two others parted, Kirkland looked grim.

"Private, training begins at 0600 sharp," Kirkland said, standing up and brushing himself off. "Now, I'm terribly sorry for leaving now, but there is an urgent matter that I must see too. Excuse me."

"Yes, sir." Steve watched as Kirkland and Matthew walked over to where Francis was sitting, Kumajirou's head resting in his lap. The Frenchman's back was to Steve, but Kirkland bent down slightly to make eye contact with Francis. The two exchanged a few quiet words before both Kirkland and Matthew moved to either side of their comrade and wrapped the Frenchman's arms around their shoulders. The two then assisted Francis out of the mess hall altogether; Steve only got a brief glimpse of Francis's face, and noted the increased paleness along with a slight shaking in the man's frame.

"The problem is that Bonnefoy is ill right now," Bucky said suddenly, relaxing back in his seat when the three officers had disappeared. "He knows Kirkland and Williams, but he's too ill to actually _do_ anything."

"Does this have anything with the secret you were threatening Sir Kirkland with?" Steve asked, glancing at Bucky.

"Yeah. Going to use it to blackmail him too." After glancing around to make sure no one else was around them, Bucky leaned over and whispered, "Kirkland and Williams are _assassins_. They're here for Major Samson!"

Steve stared at him. "Whatever gave you _that_ idea?" he whispered back.

"Long story short, I was at a hotel last night and overheard Kirkland saying that he was glad that General Phillips was in London so he, meaning Kirkland, could work without outside interference. I made up the part about someone helping me, I had to throw Kirkland off the trail a little," Bucky said excitedly, straightening in his seat.

"Bucky, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He's here to train me, and maybe he had a different teaching style that would otherwise clash with Phillips's," Steve said, trying to calm Bucky down.

Bucky shrugged. "That's what Kirkland _wants_ you to think. I'll do you a favor and won't say 'I told you so', when Kirkland and Williams strike. Besides, it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for."

Steve was about to point out that Kirkland was anything _but_ quiet, but stopped as a thought occurred to him. Kirkland did say he'd been present at Project Rebirth, and who was to say that there wasn't a second spy seeking to undermine Erskine's work for good? Kirkland also said he wanted to figure out Steve's limits, and who was to say that they would not be exploited? Perhaps Bucky was on to something?

Steve sighed before banishing the notion out of the forefront of his mind. He needed to focus on training, not conspiracies.

Something bumped into his knee, and he nearly jumped back only to realize it was just Kumajirou settling down underneath the table, his head resting near the end. Despite the just-barely-in-time rescue, the bear still looked utterly miserable. For some odd reason, Steve felt compelled to comfort the animal.

"Hello Kuma," he said, Bucky jumping too when he realized what was under the table. Meanwhile, the bear looked up at Steve, tilting its head slightly in curiosity. "Everything will turn out all right," Steve assured it.

Kuma let out a slight whine before settling back down on the floor, black eyes flickering anxiously everywhere in the mess hall but never settling on one thing in particular. As though it was searching for something or someone. The unspoken question – _But what if they don't? – _seemed to hover in the air.

In this war, Steve knew the stakes were extremely high. But for whom, he didn't know.

* * *

**A/N: Fun facts time!**

**Francis Hill is the grandfather of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Maria Hill. **

'**Les sourcils': French for 'eyebrows'.**


	5. London

**V**

**London**

* * *

"I'm not sure if I'm ready for this."

"What part about it?" Michael looked up from the two files he was holding to look at his charge. "General Phillips said he'd hold onto your command until you were feeling better."

"That's just it," Alfred said, leaning back in his desk chair and propping his feet onto the table. Taking his glasses off to clean the lenses, he said, "I still remember the Great War like it happened last week. The League of Nations was supposed to keep this from happening again. But it fell apart, and so here we are. If only Congress had allowed me to join, we could have avoided another war…"

"To be honest, sir, I think Congress will have learned their lesson this time around, and so if another League of Nations arises, they won't keep you out of it. The way I heard it, President Wilson had good ideas but everyone was too hell-bent on revenge to listen to them carefully," Michael said, finally setting down a few documents on the windowsill.

"That's summing it up nicely. England gave me such a hard time about coming up with the idea but not participating in it. I told him to spend one week with Congress and try to get something productive done," Alfred said, shrugging. "Just the start of yet another fight between us."

Michael nodded, but didn't say anything. Instead, he leaned back against the window frame and settled for watching the steady snowfall outside. The SSR's official headquarters, the basement of the Stork Club, was still being furnished and prepared for people to live there. No one had anticipated the official date of Phillips's arrival, and as a result, the pub basement was still unusable as a military base. Phillips surprisingly didn't complain about it as much as Alfred thought he would; instead, Phillips commandeered the hotel across the street 'until further notice', and considered the matter closed.

They'd been in London for only a week, but Alfred already felt extremely uncomfortable. It was like living at someone else's house in an intimate room when the owner wasn't home.

"Well," Michael finally ventured, "I heard from Private Lorraine, one of the secretaries, that Phillips plans to have Kirkland and Williams back here in four weeks. So you won't be alone for too long."

"Did you hear if Steve was coming back too?"

"Ah, no, sir. Lorraine didn't know the answer to that when I asked her. But she seems to like you well enough, so maybe if _you_ asked her, she'll put some serious effort into finding out the answer for you," Michael suggested.

Alfred gasped and put a hand on his heart, turning around in his chair. "Mike, it almost sounded like you suggested that I take advantage of a girl's affection for me in order to get what I want from her boss," Alfred said with a feigned look of shock.

"Why, of course not. Definitely not like the incident with the French ambassador's daughter, the incident that I most certainly did not read about from my predecessor," Michael countered, grinning now.

"Hey, it was either her or Francis Bonnefoy!"

"Either _who_ or Francis Bonnefoy?"

Michael shot to his feet as though he'd been burned, but Alfred only flinched before turning his chair around to look up at an immaculately dressed Peggy Carter. "Peggy! How's it going?" he asked cheerfully.

"For the last time, sir, it's Agent Carter," she replied coolly. "General Phillips wants you to go check on the progress of things at the Stork Club before curfew, and then deliver status reports to him, all written."

"Not my division!" Alfred said, straightening up in his chair and placing his feet onto the table again. "Please direct all messages to my nonexistent secretary – "

"Do you want Private Lorraine? She's currently bothering the rest of us sans Phillips," Carter said, raising an eyebrow. "She's also American, the two of you would get along fantastically."

Alfred moved his feet off the table and stared at Peggy. "Did… was that an insult?" he asked, tilting his head in slight curiosity.

Carter didn't reply, just placed the folders down on Alfred's impromptu desk. "Remember, don't be out past curfew and Phillips wants the reports at 1200 tomorrow," she said before leaving the office.

Alfred stared at her retreating back. "You saw that she just insulted me, right? And Lorraine, right?"

"Yes, sir," Michael replied, his lips twitching in an effort to not start grinning again at his charge's indignant expression. Lowering his voice, Michael added, "If you weren't so infatuated with you-know-who, I'd suggest looking for a partner with less of a… bite. American even."

Alfred snorted. "Be glad that Francis wasn't around to hear you say that, he'd have a whole list of innuendo to go through right now. That handbook I know you guys keep? Add 'Don't give Francis Bonnefoy ammunition', in it next time we're in D.C., okay?"

"Will do."

"And I did know someone special once… she was American and had less of a bite. We shared similar aspirations of flight, and she knew what she wanted to do in life," he said, glancing at Michael. "One day she decided to fly around the world and I told her I'd wait in New York for her. She never came back."

Michael nodded silently, doing the math in his head. Five years. He hadn't known Alfred or her then, but perhaps his predecessor had known her.

Alfred abruptly stood up, reaching for the folders. "Well, you heard Agent Carter. Check things out across the street, make sure things are running smoothly, and be back before supper," he said, tossing Michael his coat before grabbing his own. "Ten bucks says I can make it there and back before Phillips notices I'm gone."

"Quick in and out then?" Michael asked as the two of them headed down the stairs.

"Quick cursory glance while we're there. Then we find lunch."

Michael just shook his head, still smiling softly.

Alfred meanwhile kept up a brisk pace as he left the building, pausing long enough to tip his hat slightly at Lorraine on his way out past her. He didn't stop to talk though, even though she did start to pause in her tracks. He wasn't trying to be rude to her, but he wasn't interested in her _that_ way (regardless what anyone said or thought), and didn't want to give her the wrong impression. It didn't help either that he was easily centuries older than her, and that would be a little on the creepy side to have a man over a hundred years old date a woman barely into her twenties. With Amelia, there had been affection between the two of them, but she understood that he couldn't give her much beyond close companionship, and she'd settled for taking only what he gave her, nothing more.

Getting into the Stork Club was easy, but sneaking past Phillips's guards was another story, Alfred was committed to not being seen by the general or his minions until he made his reports. Two female distractions later, Alfred and Michael were descending the stairs into the basement.

At this point in the process, there wasn't much to look at.

There weren't any workers as far as Alfred could tell, which made sense because not only was it late afternoon, but also late in the month. Christmas and New Year's were coming soon, and the workforce was limited as it was with the war going on. Phillips had been warned ahead of time that the war and the overall state of affairs in England would slow things down, but the general had waved it off, setting up camp in his hotel.

"Well, it looks like Phillips has his work cut out for him," Michael finally said, stepping over a box had 'Fragile: Property of Howard Stark' written down one side.

"Especially if he's got more people coming in soon from the U.S.," Alfred agreed as he continued exploring down the corridor, testing doorknobs and sticking his head into unlocked rooms. "I wonder if there's more security down here, considering how easily we got past the first round of guards."

"Well, if Phillips ever does catch us down here, we can always say we were testing his security measures," Michael suggested, following his charge down the corridor.

"Bang."

Even though the word was softly spoken, Alfred failed to suppress the squeal of surprise. Reflexively reaching for his pistol, he turned and aimed down the hall at a young woman who'd materialized out of thin air. She didn't flinch even when there were two pistols aimed in her direction. Alfred didn't know what held Michael back from shooting right away, but Alfred's excuse was that he'd been caught off guard; he'd been expecting a man, not a woman.

"Who are you?" Michael demanded.

She merely raised gloved hands in surrender before stepping around boxes and pieces of equipment. "The daughter whose father is funding this transition for General Phillips and the SSR at the request of a dear friend," she replied, lowering her hands as she came to a stop.

"_Name_," Michael said coldly, keeping the pistol trained on her chest.

"Jacqueline Falsworth," she replied, brushing some loose strands of blond hair out of her face. Turning to Alfred, she said, "My father, Lord Montgomery Falsworth, served in the Great War as a part of the Freedom Five and alongside Lord Kirkland."

"Union Jack, right?" Alfred asked, lowering his pistol.

She nodded.

Alfred glanced at Michael. "It's okay, I know her father. He served with us in the Great War."

Michael hesitated, and then very slowly began to lower his gun and relax. "My apologies, ma'am."

Waving the apology off, she said, "It's quite all right, I did sneak up on you. Well, sort of. My brother and I could hear you both in the backroom where we were leaving some more supplies." Tilting her head, she added, "And it was only a reasonable reaction, seeing as Hydra has been employing a few women recently. My brother, Brian, he barely managed to escape Berlin before the start of the war and he'd picked up quite a lot of information near where he was studying."

Alfred gave a slightly embarrassed smile. "Guess I won't be doing undercover work anytime soon, if you could hear me." Offering a hand, he said, "Commander Alfred F. Jones, and this is my second – in – command, Captain Michael Fellows. We're both under the command of General Phillips in the SSR."

"Charmed," she replied, smiling as she shook their hands. "Oh, and another thing," she added, lowering her voice slightly.

"Yeah?" Alfred felt a small flash of unease; she was playing with the cuffs of her coat sleeves.

"You and I have our respective tasks in the SSR," she finally said. "Correct?"

"Apparently so," Alfred replied cautiously.

"Well then, to avoid, um, unnecessary guessing games and tiptoeing around each other, I think I should tell you that I do know who you are. Rather, _what_ you are," Jacqueline said quietly, blue eyes flickering between the two men.

There was a moment of complete silence as Alfred processed and then figured out what it was that she was saying. Even as he started to step back in caution, Michael was already pulling his gun back out again. "Who have you told?" Alfred quietly asked.

"No one," Jacqueline said, her voice matching his. Glancing at Michael nervously, she added, "No one told me either."

Alfred frowned. "Then how do you know?"

Jacqueline twisted her gloved hands. "Lord Kirkland told my father several years ago, saying something about personifications. When my father told him several months ago that he couldn't fight for him anymore, he told Mother later that he told Lord Kirkland that he couldn't 'fight for England' anymore. And… and since Lord Kirkland talks about you and your brother frequently, I… I guessed."

Alfred hesitated, and then finally nodded. "No doubt your father still remembers the Great War well."

She nodded. "I swear I haven't told anyone and I won't. I know I wasn't supposed to hear that, but…" she said, shrugging.

Alfred gestured to her in a placating manner. "It's all right. Just don't say anything to anyone, not even your brother, and it will be fine."

She nodded quickly, the tension draining from her shoulders. "All right. And please, call me Jackie," she said, looking between the two of them as Michael lowered the gun again.

"Alfred," Alfred replied, grinning now.

"Do you happen to know where Kirkland is now?" Jackie asked. "Brian… he's collected some new intel from a few agents we have in Calais."

"Virginia. Don't know when he's getting back, all I know is that he's training a few special units right now," Alfred replied.

Jackie snorted. "Brian and his boys-only superhero team could use a little teamwork practice," she said, shooting a glare over her shoulder. "Let's go with super-powered club, 'superhero' is too strong of a word in their case…"

"How many others are there in this 'club'?" Michael asked.

Jackie smiled apologetically. "If General Phillips hasn't told you yet, then perhaps I shouldn't say anything more on the subject," she said. "Ask him, but you didn't hear it from me. I don't think they're working with the SSR anyway, so you don't have to worry about them too much."

"Well, keep in mind that I'm going to be asking you again anyway the next time we meet," Alfred said.

She quirked an eyebrow. "Are you trying to ask for a date, Commander?"

"As friends. Tomorrow, Stork Club at three."

"I'll be there." Glancing at Michael, she nodded once before turning to leave.

"One more question before you leave," Alfred said suddenly.

"Yes?" she asked, turning on a heel to face him.

"If Mike and I had fired at you, what would you have done?" he asked.

She smiled. "Moved out of the way, perhaps slapped the guns out of your hands in case you fired a second time," she replied confidently.

Alfred gauged the distance between the two of them. "You can't be that fast, even if you do have fast reflexes," he said finally.

Jackie grinned. "The funny thing, Commander, is that the last man to say that to me ended up in the Thames five minutes later disarmed. I have very excellent reflexes and speed, if you're willing to test that."

"Test what?"

A look of horror flashed across her face before she whirled to face a man who'd appeared out of nowhere behind her. "Brian," she greeted with a smile. "I was just talking to Commander Jones here. He and I have a date tomorrow afternoon."

_Wait, what? As friends!_ Alfred offered a shaky (and hopefully not panicky) smile as Brian paused, stared at his younger sister, and then stared at Alfred with an incredulous look on his face. "What happened to Monsieur Bonnefoy then?" he asked, turning back to Jackie.

Jackie's face reddened. "Just because he _flirted_ with me doesn't mean he was serious! Besides, he told me he was already in a committed relationship with a girl from Montreal, Madeleine," she said, bristling.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. Francis Bonnefoy in a committed relationship? Did England know about this? Oh, maybe Mattie knew, he could write to his brother and ask him if he knew about Francis having a steady girlfriend. That was definitely news, seeing as Francis was more of a 'rendezvous' type of lover (from what Alfred had gathered from rumors). This was news indeed.

"But why does it have to be _foreigners?_" Brian demanded, distracting Alfred.

"Does it _bother_ you?" Jackie snapped.

"_Yes!"_

"_Félicitations__!_ The answer to your problems!" Jackie cried out, throwing her hands up into the air.

Brian muttered something under his breath before turning back to the two Americans. "Commander Jones?" he said, looking at Michael.

"Yes?" Alfred replied pleasantly, claiming Brian's attention.

"Ah, my apologies sir," Brian said, ignoring his sister's soft snickers. Clearing his throat, Brian said, "Please inform General Phillips that the last of the equipment and the supplies will be delivered tomorrow and that the base should be completed in three to seven days."

"Very well, thank you for the report, and thank you, Lady Falsworth, for your lovely company."

"I look forward to our date tomorrow," she replied, winking in his direction before her brother muttered something and herded her out of the room. "_Au revoir!"_ she called over her shoulder before disappearing from sight with Brian.

Alfred felt rather proud of himself. "A British girl without any bite. I should have made a bet on it. She even knows about us!"

Michael sighed. "I thought you were going only as friends."

"Yeah, but you never know."

"Take it easy with her then, sir. She won't like it if she thinks you're using her to spite someone else. _Then_ the teeth will come out."

"Relax Mike, it's just tea. I only ever said I hated tea because I wanted to spite England. It's worked beautifully this long, so don't worry. Now come on, we've got to get back to Phillips before curfew!" Alfred said before bounding down the corridor and up the stairs out of sight, his energy restored with the latest excitement.

Michael only sighed before following him. Forget about predicting the outcome of the war, he didn't see how Alfred's latest venture could end well.

* * *

**A/N: I feel special for getting this up this weekend even though I had a fever for the last couple days.**

**Freedom Five: A group of five Allied superheroes from World War I. Three were British, one was American, and one was French. James Montgomery Falsworth, Jacqueline's father, was the costumed hero Union Jack during this time. **


	6. Visit

**VI**

**Visit**

* * *

Steve learned pretty fast why Arthur Kirkland had been General Phillips's first choice for instructor.

The initial stage – finding his limits – went by quickly; Kirkland had pushed him as much as he dared during exercises in those first few weeks. He also seemed to possess an innate ability of sensing whenever Steve _was_ pushing it, which really was a blessing and a curse all rolled into one. It meant that while he knew when to stop, it also meant he knew if Steve was holding back for some reason or another. There had been one instance where Steve had been holding back as to not hurt his sparring partner, and Kirkland, irked by this, had switched with Steve, goading him into pushing harder.

Steve learned that day that Kirkland knew how to throw a punch.

Despite all this however, Steve felt sometimes that while Kirkland was there physically, more often than not he was mentally miles away. The most frequent example of this was that Kirkland always stared in the same direction, usually very early in the morning. His chest was paining him as well, something he took great care to hide from Samson and Steve despite the fact that Steve noticed anyway not too long after Christmas. Finally, despite his obvious dislike for the Frenchman however, Kirkland never strayed far from either Bonnefoy or Williams when off duty.

"Is Sir Kirkland always like this?" Steve asked at one point after a frustrating morning session, one that had ended with Steve on his back in the mud and Kirkland covered in the stuff from head to toe. Kirkland, he noted, was sitting with Williams on the other side of the mess hall, but was still staring in that one direction.

"Mm? Like how?" Bonnefoy replied in French as a not–so–subtle reminder to keep practicing the language as often as possible… and that it was still lunch, which also doubled as their lessons. Over time, Bonnefoy's illness seemed to be draining more and more of his energy, lending more to his pale complexion. That didn't stop him however from keeping up with the daily lessons.

"Distant," Steve replied, switching to French as well.

Bonnefoy twisted in his seat to get a good look at Kirkland, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Honestly? I do not know if he is like this constantly since usually, he is forever locked away on his lonely little island, and I am really the last person he would ever confide in, we have something of a violent history together."

Steve glanced at him warily; even Bucky caught on early that the Frenchman was a wily individual used to getting his own way. Samson was the only one who could get away with maintaining the upper hand in a discussion because Bonnefoy was a guest and both men knew it. Bucky then later found out that Bonnefoy had a tendency to avoid a direct conflict when possible (although Steve had yet to see evidence of this since Bonnefoy riled Kirkland up on a daily basis much to the amusement of the other recruits).

"If you don't mind me asking, how violent are we talking?" he asked, mindful to keep his voice down.

Bonnefoy gave him a little smirk. "We've taken each other's little brother and tried to wipe each other off the map completely several times," he replied in a grave tone that contradicted his little smile.

Steve stared at him, completely unsure of whether Bonnefoy was joking, or they'd just had an error in translation. Francis Bonnefoy looked and sounded completely serious, but there was a small smirk at the corner of his mouth, as though he was allowing Steve in on an extremely sensitive secret.

Whatever the case was, Steve never found out because Bonnefoy sat up straight and called out something to Kirkland's retreating back in an unfamiliar dialect, prompting Kirkland to start swearing in the same dialect before storming out of the mess hall in a huff. "Ah, I'd forgotten how cute he is when he's jealous," Bonnefoy said, smirking.

Things eventually came to a head one early morning in late January.

"Come now, Rogers," Kirkland said, standing in his usual spot near the outskirts of the camp near the training fields, looking distinctive as ever in his green uniform in a background of gray. "We'll be working with Sergeant Calhoun and two of his recruits today, after the usual morning calisthenics," he said as Steve joined him.

"Calhoun… he does stealth training, doesn't he?" Steve asked as he followed Kirkland to the training fields beyond the barracks.

"Correct, but according to the latest reports from London, the Germans are attempting to infiltrate Allied troops with the aid of traitors. We, as in the Allied Command, have decided to try and beat them at their own game. Today though, we'll be working hand–to–hand, especially since chances are likely that it will be one of your own that you end up facing," Kirkland warned before continuing to walk.

"Wait, what?"

"You heard me," Kirkland growled, turning to face Steve. "This is war, Rogers. People, for some reason or another, choose to fight for the other side." His expression softened marginally, and he said in a quieter voice, "Did Doctor Erskine not choose to assist the Allies instead of the Nazis?"

Steve felt a flare of anger, but fought to keep it in check. "Yes, but that was because the Nazis were persecuting him and – " he began, but Kirkland cut him off.

"_Exactly._ Maybe there's an American who felt as though the government was persecuting him or a British officer who felt as though the money was good enough. My point is that betrayal goes both ways in wartime, especially in one as dangerous as this. There may come a point where you'll locate and have to eliminate the leak without alerting the entire rest of the network before you strike," Kirkland said. "That means putting on a smile even though you know you'll have to eventually kill him or her."

"'Her'?" Steve echoed.

Kirkland shrugged. "Bonnefoy's last paramour turned out to be a Nazi spy. Her deception wasn't discovered until _after_ the invasion of Paris, and he… he has had no desire for any kind of relationship with anyone since then. It is admittedly worrisome." Glaring at Steve, he added, "Repeat that to him, and I swear I'll never speak to you again."

"Actually, you still have to train me," Steve reminded him.

Kirkland made a derisive sniff. "I've trained soldiers before without talking to them, and I most certainly can do it again," he said stiffly.

Steve most certainly knew well when to back off. "Of course, sir," he replied. Glancing around the currently empty fields, he asked, "When is Sergeant Calhoun getting here?"

"He's coming, just get started," Kirkland said irritably, rubbing his forehead.

Steve breezed through the warm-ups (while keeping in mind to take them seriously, he didn't want a repeat of last week's cramped muscles) and then set out on his usual run, which consisted of five laps around the field where he usually trained. He kept glancing at Kirkland; while it was still early in the morning, Kirkland would have been yelling at him by this time anyway. Today though, he simply stood where Steve had left him, his mouth set into a thin grim line and his face paler than usual. Steve slowed down in the middle of his third circuit, noting the other man's rigid spine and the slight twitching in one of his hands. When he didn't do anything more, Steve mentally shrugged and went back to running.

He was on the last part of that third circuit, running in Kirkland's general direction when he looked up in the other man's direction in time to see him suddenly stagger backwards, clutching his chest before completely sinking to his knees, pain written all over his face.

_Please do me a HUGE favor and keep an eye on him? I'm worried about him…_

Steve didn't think twice.

By the time the memory of Alfred's first letter since the operation came to mind, Steve was already approaching Kirkland's side. "Easy there, sir," he said, gently forcing the startling thin man to at least sit down completely on the ground. Steve didn't see any of the signs for a heart attack, but knew to be careful anyway. "Sir?"

"I'll be fine, don't you dare call for a doctor," Kirkland growled, green eyes tightly closed. "I'll… I'll be fine, I just need a minute or two to let it pass, and it always does…"

"Sir, I really think you should see a doctor," Steve said, not finding it hard at all to keep Kirkland down as the other man tried to get back up to his feet. For some reason though, it seemed to somehow put Kirkland in an even worse mood.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Kirkland said through clenched teeth, "If you must, then send for Williams and help me get back to my quarters. I absolutely refuse to see a doctor."

Steve could see the color slowly returning to Kirkland's face, and his breathing was evening out. "Can you walk?" he asked finally, reaching forward and checking Kirkland's pulse.

"Just barely. Help me up," Kirkland snapped crossly.

Steve knelt slightly and carefully wrapped Kirkland's hand around his shoulder, and, after Kirkland grumbled something incoherent under his breath, he gently lifted the frail man to his feet. "Where is Williams about now?" he asked as he carefully began walking, Kirkland limping along beside him.

"Should be in his quarters still, I haven't had a chance to give him any orders for today," Kirkland replied irritably. "At least I can count on him, unlike his trouble-making, double–crossing, treasonous Yankee of a brother…"

"I don't know, Jones spoke rather highly of you in his last letter," Steve replied, taking a guess at the identity of the 'double-crossing treasonous Yankee' and moving on.

"_Of course_ he did! He has to work with me!" Kirkland said, straightening a little. He grunted before muttering, "This is highly unusual, it should be well into the day back home… they never come until night…"

"Surprise attack?" Steve suggested. He had no idea what Kirkland was talking about, but humoring the injured officer seemed the better alternative compared to questioning him. Steve made a mental note to find a doctor anyway, and mention the mutterings as a part of the symptoms of whatever illness Kirkland was suffering from.

"Probably. But that's a bold move, even for Beilschmidt… dear God, he must have realized I'm not home, leaving London vulnerable…" Kirkland stopped for a moment before glancing at Steve. "We might need to move the training to London, I'll never have a moment's peace here in the States."

"I think that might be something you have to clear with Samson first," Steve replied carefully. "Or Phillips."

Kirkland snorted. "Just watch, Private. I'll make such a good case that they will have no choice to accept."

Somehow, Steve believed him. "Remind me not to get on your bad side," he said with a faint smile.

Kirkland arched a bushy eyebrow at him and said, "You'd do best to remember that, even without me having to remind you. In fact, you wouldn't want me to remind you because that means it might be too late."

His tone alone warned Steve of the unmentioned alternative. So he decided to simply let the subject drop.

* * *

The rest of the walk to Kirkland's quarters took longer than Steve would have guessed.

Despite his claims otherwise, Kirkland's strength rapidly deteriorated, leaving him clinging to Steve's shoulders. He staunchly refused to be carried or to see a doctor, even going as far as to threaten Steve with insubordination should Steve even _think_ about disobeying him.

"Just find Marlowe once you leave me… and _no doctors!_" Kirkland growled. "Then go find Sergeant Calhoun and work with him as you would with me until the session ends, then proceed as normal for the rest of the day."

"And Marlowe is where again?" Steve asked, wondering what changed Kirkland's preference for Williams for 'Marlowe'.

Kirkland muttered something under his breath, sagging in Steve's grip. "_Williams._ He should be in his quarters or with that bear. Around at least," he said as Steve came to a stop outside his quarters. "He _never_ gives me any trouble, unlike certain others who shall remain nameless for the time being, primarily because I'm still angry with the little upstart…"

"Seems to me that you've been angry with him for quite some time, sir," Steve remarked as the two entered the small building, Steve steering Kirkland through the first room toward the second.

"Almost all of his young adult life," Kirkland admitted as Steve gently set him down on the camp bed. "But if he just hadn't listened to the damn frog…"

Steve grimaced. "Don't you think that's a little bit long to be angry with someone? I mean, you seem to be feuding with Monsieur Bonnefoy, but you're talking to him," he carefully said.

"Only out of necessity, as I do with Jones. Now please go find Williams," Kirkland replied in a cool tone that effectively killed the conversation.

Williams's location was always easy to spot; the general rule of thumb was to find the bear first. The bear never strayed farther than five feet from its master, so once the bear was found, its master was never too far away. Steve found Kuma lying on its back in front of a wooden door of a nearby building, soaking up weak sunlight as it turned its head long enough to regard Steve's approach with vague disinterest. Steve knew better though; while the bear left the other soldiers alone and vice versa after the incident with the rifle on Williams's first day at Lehigh, Kuma still growled when ignorant recruits got too close for comfort. Right as Steve got to the front door however, Kuma let out an unexpected yowl, startling Steve enough for the man to take a few steps away again. Kuma rolled over onto its belly and pulled itself up, making sleepy snuffling sounds as it did. Steve remained absolutely still as Kuma approached while sniffing the air around him. Then Kuma let out a grumble before turning around returning to its patch of sun.

"Rogers?"

He turned to find Williams already standing outside, the door shut firmly behind him. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, making a half – hearted attempt to straighten his tie while trying to shrug on his jacket at the same time. He attempted to neaten his badly–mussed hair, but gave up a few seconds later. "Did something happen?" he asked, brow creased in concern.

"It's Kirkland. He collapsed before we even got started, and I think he has heart trouble of some kind. He's refusing to be seen by a doctor, but I'm thinking of sending for one anyway, regardless of his orders on the matter," Steve explained, deciding not to mention Kirkland's numerous threats.

"Good idea. He's never liked doctors very much," Williams said, gesturing for Steve to follow him. "I don't pretend to know why, but if Monsieur Bonnefoy didn't exist, doctors would be at the top of the list of things he hates. Thankfully, that's not the case, but you get the idea anyway," he said.

"How long have you worked for Kirkland?" Steve asked.

"Quite a while, long enough to get a hang of his mood swings. I trained under Monsieur Bonnefoy, but transferred a little while ago," Williams replied. "Speaking of which, I have an idea. Go get a physician anyway, and I'll tell Kirkland it was my idea. That way, he'll be relatively calmer when you come with the doctor," he said, grinning at the thought.

Steve nodded. "Any doctor in particular?"

"Doctor Glass, he can tolerate Kirkland the most," Williams replied before continuing to Kirkland's quarters. "And don't fear retribution, it's not happening if I have anything to say about it." Steve nodded before leaving.

Steve knew Glass well; in addition to being the only doctor who was successful in stopping any ridiculous behavior from his patients, he also oversaw Steve's overall healthcare while Steve was at Lehigh. Both General Phillips and Major Samson hadn't wanted to take chances with an unknown quantity such as the serum, and entrusted the secret to Doctor Glass, who had agreed to take on the task without hesitation. Glass was an excellent doctor, but what mattered most here was that he knew when to keep his mouth shut on issues that extended beyond the standard doctor – patient confidentiality.

He was standing in the front room of the medical ward when Steve entered, engaged in a conversation with a nurse. Steve waited patiently off to the side until the nurse left before stepping forward. "Dr. Glass? May I have a moment?" he asked, keeping his voice down.

Glass jumped slightly, but smiled when he turned and saw that it was Steve. "Rogers, how are you today?" he asked.

"I'm fine, but it's Kirkland who needs medical attention. He collapsed earlier this morning, keeps insisting that he's fine when it's obvious he isn't," Steve said, stepping back to allow Glass access to the front desk.

Instead of the panic that Steve half – expected, Glass merely sighed. "Very well, thank you for telling me. Kirkland won't be happy to see me at all, but even knows that all I can do is make him more comfortable," he said, placing two folders on top of a stack before reaching across the front desk to grab a third out from another stack. "Thank you, Rogers, for bringing this to my attention," he added before collecting two more files. "That will be all."

"Of course." Steve turned to leave.

"Actually, there is one more thing," Glass suddenly said as Steve started to leave. "Regardless of what anyone tells you, Major Samson has not approved of any non-training – related activities," he said over his shoulder before leaving, presumably to collect more paperwork before going to Kirkland.

Steve frowned, but nodded. Shrugging aside the confusion, he turned to leave as well.

"Rogers!"

"Senator Brandt! Sir, I didn't think you would be here," Steve said, deftly saving himself (and Phillips) from embarrassment by remembering the man's name in time. Or maybe not, seeing as he just put his foot in his mouth instead.

Brandt laughed slightly. "Oh, just looking around, talking with Major Samson about the SSR. I suggested a project in order to boost the nation's morale, but he's still conferring with Phillips over it. Of course, that doesn't make sense, seeing as Phillips is overseas fighting a war and Samson is here training soldiers, and thus in a better position to deliver orders and grant requests, menial things like that," he said, leaning slightly on the receptionist's desk. "In the meantime, while I wait, Samson gave me a guide to show me around the camp, check in on how things are doing. Unfortunately, I lost my guide somewhere around in here, so I'm at a bit of a loss."

"I can help you find your guide, or even a new one," Steve offered.

"Really? Would you mind showing me around then?" Brandt asked hopefully, following Steve as the latter began to leave, gesturing toward the front door.

Steve opted for the safe route. "Ah, apologies, but I have orders –"

"Is ill, if I recall correctly," Brandt interrupted. "He most certainly is not in any condition to be giving orders."

Steve tried not to wince, tried not to think what Kirkland would do to the politician at the hint of his inability to do his job. Instead, he said, "Sir Kirkland did leave orders however, ones that I have to fulfill before the end of the day."

"Still, at least humor me for five minutes. I never did get a chance to talk to you after you caught that Hydra spy, remember? I had an alternate proposal to being stuck here under Kirkland's command, one that is still available. All it takes is a few, well – placed words. Just hear me out before you decide," he pleaded as the two walked toward the exit. Steve glanced back and noticed with relief that the receptionist, Dr. Glass's daughter Cynthia, was back. She just held her hands out at his expression with an apologetic look, silently explaining that her hands were tied.

"Five minutes is all I'm asking for," Brandt said, reclaiming Steve's attention.

Steve hesitated for a moment, and then caved. "Five minutes," he said, following Brandt out the door.

He still couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't about to go well.

* * *

**A/N: Long hiatus, huh? Sorry about that, updates should be more frequent now.**


	7. Deal

**VII**

**Deal**

* * *

"He asked you to do _what?_"

"Shhh," Steve said, gesturing for a dumbfounded Bucky to keep his voice down. "I told you, it's technically a secret right now, but Senator Brandt wanted me to help him with raising for both recruitment for the war and the sale of war bonds. Figured that if Phillips wasn't putting me on the field yet, he could take advantage of me being here in the States," Steve explained. "In exchange, he'd intercede on my behalf to General Phillips about going on the field. We all know that I can fight now, especially now that the sergeants have been training me for a while."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "And what did Major Samson say to all that?" he asked warily, poking the spaghetti with the fork.

"He approved of what he heard, Brandt didn't mention the bit about speaking to General Phillips," Steve admitted before going back to his dinner. The two were in the mess hall after another grueling day; Calhoun was proving to be just as demanding as Kirkland.

"What do the sergeants have to say about you being ready? You've only been here for how long again?" Bucky said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"I think Sergeant Calhoun is pleased with my progress, said as much earlier today. I don't know about Kirkland though," Steve said, glancing at the English officer, who was sitting across the dining hall and picking at his food. Williams was leaning across the table, talking to him, but Steve couldn't tell what they were talking about. It was good though, to see Kirkland up and about three days after his collapse in the field during that one session.

Bucky sniffed in disdain. "I wouldn't trust any of them, they're all spies. I heard Kirkland admit as much this one time I snuck into town," he said, shrugging. Sitting back down, he said, "What I don't get, is if what Brandt told you was such a big secret you couldn't tell anyone, then why are you telling _me?_"

"Because I need to get into town tonight, Brandt had something in mind but couldn't do it here in camp in case someone found out too early," Steve explained quietly. "And the few people I talked to about getting out said to come talk to you, as you were the expert at getting in and out of the camp."

Bucky stared at him for a moment before grinning broadly. "I like the way you think," he said before twisting around in his seat. "Unfortunately, I don't see my private driver, so we'll have to wait a little longer before finalizing details."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "You have a _private_ driver?" he asked with a touch of disbelief in his voice.

"Let's just say that Francis Bonnefoy won't be skulking around the cabins after dark anymore. HE stopped the same night I got my private driver. He claimed he was looking for Arthur Kirkland and Matthew Williams to strategize for the war; I threatened to expose the secret he shared with Williams and Kirkland to Samson and anyone else who listened. Bonnefoy can go to town at his leisure, I can't." Bucky spread his hands out and said, "You're welcome."

"I can't believe you blackmailed a commanding officer like that, even if he isn't from the United States. He's still an ally, and should be treated as such," Steve warned.

"Steve, _he's planning something_. And I have more power here than he does because I've been here longer, and he knows it," Bucky said, shrugging one shoulder.

Steve shook his head. "I can guarantee that will come back to haunt you one day," he warned as the mess hall doors opened and the topic of their conversation casually sauntered into the room.

"Just watch," Bucky said before climbing off his seat and trotting over to the Frenchman, who was enough of a diplomat to not dismiss Bucky on sight and actually appear interested. Steve made a mental note to himself to check with Samson the actual chain of command when all was said and done, because he was sure that half of what Bucky did was illegal.

"Ah, Private Rogers, just the man I wanted to see," Francis Bonnefoy said pleasantly as he walked over to their table, Bucky leading the way. "I have something for you after all," he added, a small smile flitting across his face.

"Oh?" Steve assumed that whatever it was, it was safe since Bonnefoy wasn't smirking like he did when he was about to drop another (supposedly) obscure sexual innuendo on Kirkland just to rile the man up. Just because Steve didn't call him out on it in the few occasions, didn't mean he didn't know what Bonnefoy was implying. "What exactly do you have?" he asked patiently.

Bonnefoy laughed at Steve's cautious tone. " Relax, _mon ami_, nothing like that. A letter from a mutual friend," he said, sliding the letter in question across the table to Steve, who pocketed it without looking. Bonnefoy slid into the seat as he said, "I did not know you knew Commander Jones."

_Commander?_ "I met an Alfred F. Jones before I first came here," Steve said carefully. Technically it had been before Project Rebirth, but he was pretty sure he wasn't allowed to be discussing that here.

"Ah, my apologies. Alfred F. Jones, I know him _quite_ well also," Bonnefoy said, smirking now. "As does dear Arthur, but that's another story for another time." Eyeing Bucky, Bonnefoy added, "Now, as much as I enjoy your company, the little _imbécile_ wanted something from me, and I suspect something from you as well."

"Actually, it was mostly my fault, I asked him to help me sneak out of camp tonight, and he said that you would be the driver," Steve admitted, careful not to react to the insult in the off chance that Bucky did not understand French. Then again, the word was a cognate anyway, so Bucky could probably guess the word on his own.

"Ah, I see. Well, unfortunately, our little deal, as he's most likely described to you, only extends between the two of us, and cannot extend to any third parties that could affect or be affected by the terms of our little negotiation," Bonnefoy said apologetically as he began to stand up again. "_Je __suis desole._"

"_Not so fast!_" Bucky's hand shot out and caught the Frenchman's thin wrist. "You can't do that, you agreed that you'd do whatever I asked of you. That includes taking us to town-"

"Ah, ah, ah, Rogers wasn't present at the time of our deal, and so was not included in the agreement," Bonnefoy said, smiling broadly now as he sat back down again.

"You can't just say that!" Bucky protested, ignoring Steve's attempts to quiet him and get him back into his seat.

"Actually, I can. We never put anything down in writing, so I am obliged to change that little detail without consequence," Bonnefoy replied innocently, folding his hands back on to the table top. "And if you do decide to bring this little dispute to Major Samson, you will find that he will agree with me. It is my word against yours, after all."

"Not if I expose your secret first!" Bucky snapped. "I know who you all really are," he said, voice near a snarl.

Bonnefoy arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Care to enlighten me then? I have as many secrets as the next man, you'll have to specify which one," he said, apparently very unconcerned with Bucky's threat.

Bucky spoke before Steve could stop him. "The one where you're an enemy _spy_!"

Steve thanked God that everyone else was too busy eating and talking to hear the three of them. Francis looked at first surprised, then offended, then calm, and then finally a slow smile spread across his face. "Oh, my dear boy, is that the big secret you've been hanging over Arthur all this time?" he asked before laughing softly at Bucky's stupefied expression. "That is a good one, I only wish I had thought of it first. Alas, I fear that I must assure you with complete confidence that you will never find another Frenchman more loyal to his homeland than me. I am _greatly_ invested in the Allies' cause since the people are at stake."

Bucky managed to somehow recover faster from that declaration than Steve did. "So you're _not_ an enemy spy? I heard Kirkland say-" he began, but Bonnefoy cut him off.

"Bucky, the first thing you should know about Arthur Kirkland is that he would rather die than betray his country, and that is why we get along so well despite apparent differences," Bonnefoy said, still unconcerned about the threats. "I suspect that you heard a conversation out of context, which is inadvisable. Anyway, I will happily make another deal with you. Keep this conversation private, and I will take you into town tonight," he offered.

"How do I know you will keep your end of the bargain?" Bucky asked suspiciously.

For a split second, Bonnefoy looked much older than his years, the eyes especially. Steve realized instinctually that they were dealing with an older power here, something he couldn't even begin to comprehend. "I wonder if you would humor me for a moment?" Bonnefoy said, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course, sir," Steve said before Bucky could reply.

"Excellent. Now, Bucky, I will have you be the example in this scenario. Imagine, just for a moment, the size of the United States, and how many people currently live within the borders," Bonnefoy said, watching Bucky now. When the younger nodded, Bonnefoy nodded and said, "Now imagine you can feel the emotions of _every single American individual_, the hopes for victory, the anxiety of approaching the battlefield for the first time, the fear of capture, imagine all of that but centered on you."

"Sounds overwhelming," Bucky said finally, and Bonnefoy nodded.

"Now _pretend_ that the Germans, or more likely the Japanese, against all odds, have managed to capture not only your coasts, but your capital as well. Your people are now frightened, paranoid, and suffering both mentally and physically under enemy rule. Your government has fled the capital, taking with them any hope of a swift rescue or return. For you, there is no end in sight to the suffering, so you must handle hundreds of millions of people suffering in addition to your own. There is no way to rest, because while your people are chained, you are still free. The only reason to get up and continue is the knowledge that there are those still willing to fight for you, to lessen the burden. Other than that, there is no end to the nightmare that has become your very existence," Bonnefoy said in a steady voice, never breaking eye contact with Bucky.

"Which is why you're helping the S.S.R. Because the Super-Soldier project means that there's a chance to end it soon," Steve said quietly, catching onto Bonnefoy's words. "Were you a part of the government, sir?"

"I worked under Prime Minister Paul Reynaud until immediately after his resignation," Bonnefoy said, turning to face him. "As with any war in a captured country, there is forever confusion of the legitimacy of the provisional government as well as to whom the Germans recognize as the official leaders. The Germans need for France to appear independent still so that it is possible to deny resources to the Allies. I left as soon as it became apparent that the Vichy regime was willing to appease the Germans. The Germans now hold the northern and western regions of the country and the Vichy regime holds the rest. But I consider the entire country when it comes to the people. You cannot divide a country in half and only consider the wellbeing of the minority if you wish for the whole to be saved."

Steve nodded, well aware that there was more that Bonnefoy wasn't telling them, but knew to let it go. "And humoring Brandt will be what it takes to get there?" he finally asked, knowing that Brandt didn't immediately guarantee a way to the battlefield.

"I believe that should you cross paths with Brandt, it will force General Phillips's hand, and then Kirkland will be allowed to finish training you on his terms rather than the general's. He will be more at ease once he is back on British soil and in more control of the situation. I have to agree with him in that Phillips's rules are rather stifling," Bonnefoy replied mildly. "He insists on playing games with someone who is an expert, it is hardly my or your fault if he errs."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "And if I play this… game with you, Brandt nor Phillips will realize that it was all staged?" he asked.

Bonnefoy nodded. "Trust me when I say that out-maneuvering politicians and military officers is something of a side hobby for me, sitting in on meetings and whatnot can really only keep me entertained for so long, especially in the twenty years between wars. I prefer being with my people than being with squabbling old men who think they know everything there is to rebuild a war torn nation. Half of the time, they're right, so let's keep the United States in one piece, shall we?" he said, nodding to Bucky as well. "The two of you should remember to keep this quiet, hm?" he added right as Kirkland approached him from behind.

"Keep _what_ quiet?" Kirkland said coldly, glaring down at Bonnefoy. When Bonnefoy merely smirked, Kirkland looked at Steve and said, "Is he going to break into my quarters again and leave another bloody dead animal tonight?"

"Oh, Arthur, the fantasies you weave could astound even that William Shakespeare of yours," Bonnefoy said, waving the accusation off with one hand. "Besides, we _both _know it was Kumajirou. After all, don't animals bring dead prey to their masters as signs of affection? And isn't _Mathieu_ in the same cabin as you?"

"Yet for some odd reason, he wasn't in that night. You wouldn't happen to know where he went off to, do you?" Kirkland growled, focusing on Bonnefoy now. Steve was resisting the urge now to leave while he still could, and he could tell Bucky was having a similar problem.

"Arthur, Arthur, _Mathieu _is a growing man who has needs that must-"

"_Enough, _I get it, I get it," Kirkland snapped crossly, much to Bonnefoy's amusement. Steve coughed into his hand as Kirkland straightened. "You and I have to talk about that brat overseas, he's about to suggest something that requires your opinion," he said, waving a letter in Bonnefoy's face for emphasis. "And I expect Matthew back where he belongs _tonight_."

"But Montreal is so far away! Besides, he and I were headed to town today because he wanted a little lesson in how to properly attract all the lovely young ladies that are currently residing there in hopes of catching a lover –"

"There is no conceivable way that I am discussing this here," Kirkland said, cutting him off. "I, just, _no_." Then, before anyone could stop him, he turned on his heel and promptly left.

"Works every time," Bonnefoy said smoothly before turning back to Steve and Bucky. "Do meet me outside the motorpool just after sundown, I'll have the authorization codes and the rest of that nonsense," he added as he stood up. "Given that the 'brat' has deigned to write to Monsieur Kirkland and not me, it must be critical and I must attend to it right away."

"Of course, sir."

Steve and Bucky watched him walk away before Bucky said, "Growing up here, I hear a lot of stuff that the soldiers get up to. Hell, I deliver messages for half of the soldiers here for their sweethearts that are waiting in town." Shaking his head, he added, "I really don't know how he handles it, especially with the fact that Bonnefoy's girl must be back in France."

"He doesn't have one, not anymore," Steve said automatically, recalling his conversation with Kirkland earlier that day. "Kirkland said she turned out to be a German spy."

Bucky grimaced. "That's rough."

"Yeah, don't tell him I said that."

The two were quiet for a few more minutes before Bucky said, "Well, I've got a few errands to run, figure out if anyone wants anything while I'm in town." Glancing at Steve, he asked, "Do you know how long your meeting with Brandt will take?"

"No idea."

"Okay, I'll ask Bonnefoy to plan for being out until midnight, chances are he'll want to stay the night, in which case we would have to wait, and then go looking for him. While he can be out as long as he wants, we have to be back by morning or Samson will definitely suspect something." Bucky grinned as he glanced at Steve, and said, "Stick by me, I know the ropes of sneaking in and out of this camp."

"Maybe you should point out said holes in security to Samson, I know that it would take away that bit of freedom but that could be problematic if a German spy tries to sneak in or something," Steve pointed out as he too stood up with Bucky.

"Let me get a few more delivery runs in and then I'll tell Samson." Bucky scowled in the direction that the two men had left in, and then said, "I can't believe that they're not spies. I specifically heard Kirkland say Phillips' name and that he was away in London and 'out of the way'."

"Maybe he wasn't talking about Phillips in particular, he does have an American counterpart in London right now," Steve said, remembering what he'd heard from other officers. "I think he's the 'brat' that he'd mentioned earlier. And the man I've been exchanging letters with, although I haven't had a chance to write back to his last one." Sighing, he said, "Let me go read his letter and write a reply before we go. Motorpool, right?"

"Yep! See you there, and remember. Not a word."

Steve rolled his eyes but ruffled Bucky's hair affectionately, easily sidestepping the teen's swat of annoyance with a smile. "Try to stay out of trouble for the next hour or so, huh? I heard Duffy grumbling again about your misconduct during lunch."

"Yeah, but did he mention that he started it?" Bucky shot back, grinning.

Steve shrugged. "Doesn't matter who started it, it's more important who ended it," he said, winking before he turned and left the mess hall.

Unfolding Alfred's letter as he walked, he began to read it, brow furrowing as he continued to study the written contents. Then, once done, he folded it back up in his pocket and began to mentally compose his reply as he headed back to his barracks in order to put it down on paper.


End file.
